2nd draft, November 1926, I.1§1 draft level 1

MS British Library 47471 1-31 Draft details

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brings us |1back1| to

Howth Castle & Environs! Sir Tristram, |v1viola violerv1| d'amoo d'amores, |1fr'over the short sea,1| had passencore rearrived |1from North Armorica1| on |1this side1| the scraggy isthmus |1of Europe Minor1| |1from North Amorica1| to wielderfight his penisolate war:; nor had stream rocks by the Oconee exaggerated themselse to Laurens County, Ga, nor doublin all the time; nor avoice noravoice nor avoice from a fire afire bellowsed mishe mishe to |1tufftuff thouartpeatrick tauftauf thuartpeatrick1|: not yet had a Ki, though venisoon after, had a kidscad buttended a bland old isaac; not yet, though all's fair in vanessy, had were sosie |1sisthers sesthers1| wroth with twone jonathan. Rot a peck of pa's malt had Jhem or Shen brewed by arclight and rory end to the regginbrow was to be seen ringsome on the waterface.

|1The tale of the The1| fall |1(|abadal­gharaghtakammin­narronnkonn­bronn­tonnerronn­tuonn­thunn­trovarrhonn­awn­skawn­too­hoor­denen­thounuck! badal­gharaghta­kamminnarronn­konnbronn­tonnerronn­tuonn­thunn­trovarrhonn­awn­skawn­too­hoor­denen­thounucckk!a|)1|
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|1of a once wallstreet oldparr1| is retaled early in bed and later on life down through all christian minstrelsy. The great fall of the |1wall |astreetwall straitwalla|1| entailed at such short notice the schute of Finnigan, |1once erse1| solid man, that the humptyhillhead of humself prumptly sends an unquiring one well to the west in quest of his tumptytumtoes: and their upturnpikepointingplace is at the knock out in the park where oranges have been laid to rest upon the green ever and evermore since Devlins first loved livy.

What clashes here of wills upon wonts|1, oystrygods gaggin fishigods1|! What What chance cuddleys, what castles aired & ventilated! What bidmetoloves sinduced by what tegotetabsolvers! What true feeling for hayair with what strawng voice of false jiccup! O here here how hoth sprowled met the dusk the father of fornicationists but, O my shining stars and body,
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how hath fanespanned most high heaven the skysign of soft advertisement! But was is? Is aught? Ere we're were |1sure sewers1|? Sure! The oaks of old now they rust in peat yet elms leap where ashes lay and not so soon either shall the pharce for the nonce come to a setdown secular phoenish.

Bygmister Finnegan of the Stuttering Hand, |1builder freeman's |amason maurera|1|, lived in the broadest way imarginable in his rushlit toofarback with messuages and during mighty odd years this man of hod, cement and edifices |1in Toper's Thorp1| piled buildung super buildung pon the banks for the livers
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by the Soangso. He addle iddle wyfie Annie hugged the liddle craythur Wither hayre in honds tuck up your part-in-her. Oftwhile balbulous |1mitre ahead, with goodly trowel in |ahand graspa| and |aivory ivoroileda| overalls |awhich he habitacularly fancieda|,1| he would see by the light of the liquor wheretwin twas born his |1roundup tower roundhead staple |ain undress masonr mas maisonrya|1| to rise upstanded (joygrantit!), a |1|awoolworth waalwortha| of a1| skyerscape of |1an most1| eyeful hoyth |1entirely entowerly |aerigenating in next to nothing, |bcelesclating the himals and all,b| hierarchitectitoploftical,a|1| with |1a bough bobbing off its |abaubeltop baubletopa| and1| larrons o'toolers clittering up on it and |1tumbles tombles1| a'buckets clottering down. Of the first was he to bear bare arms and a name. His crest |1of haroldry1|, in vert with ancillars, |1troublant, argent,1| a |1hegoat hegoak1|, |1poursuivant,1| horrid, horned. His scutchum, fessed, with archers strung, helio, of the second. |1Haitch Hootch1| is for husbandman handling his hoe. Hohohoho, Mister Finn, you're going to be Finn Mister Finnagain. Comeday morn and, O, you're vine, sendday's eve and, Ah, you're vinegar! Hahahaha, Mister |1Funread Funn1|, you're going to be fined again!

|1|aWhat then brought about municipal sin.a| It may have been a missfired brick, as some say, or it mought have been due to a collupsus of his backpromises, as others looked at it. (There are |aby nowa| 1001 stories of the same, all told)1| |1And But1| so sore did abe ite ivvy's holired apples |1what with the |awallhall'sa| horrors of rollsrights, carhacks, stoneengens, kisstvanes, tramtrees, fargobawlers, autokinotons, |astreetfleets, |btournintaxes,b|a| megaphoggs, circuses and wardsmoats and |abasilicars basilikerks |band aeropagods |c|d& their hoyse & |+++the bus+++| jollybrools & the peeler in the coat & the mecklinburk bitches biting his eard| & |dthe hisd| merlnbarrow burrocks & |dthe hisd| four old porecourts, the bore the more & |dthe hisd| blighty black workingstacks at twelvepins the dozenc|b|a|, and the fumes and the hopes and the strupithump of the ville's indigenous romekeepers, homesweepers, domecreepers, & the |aroor of uproors froma| the aufroofs, a roof for may & a reef for hugh |a& under a buttunder hisa| bridge for suits tony.1| wan warning Phill
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felt tippling full. His howd filled heavy, his hoddit did shake. (There was a wall of course in erection). |1Dimb!1| He stottered from the latter. Damb! He was dud. Dumb! |1Mastabatoom, Mastabadtom, when a mon merries his lute is all long.1| For |1all whole1| the world to see.

Size? I should |1say see1|! Macool, Macool, orra why deed ye diii |1of a tryin thirstay mournin1|? Sobs they sighdid at Fillagain's chrisormiss wake. |1All the hoolivans of the nation, prostrated in their consternation in their duodecimally profusive plethora of ululation1| There was plumbs and grumes and sheriffs and citherers and raiders and |1cittamen cinemen1| too. And the all gianed in with the shoutmost shoviality. Agog and magog and the round of them agrog. Twas he was the dacent gayll gaylabouring youth. Sharpen his pillowscone, tap up his bier. E'erawhere in this world would you hear sich a din again? For |1whole hold1| hangsigns and the thirstay fidelios. They laid him broadon l |1alonglast alanglast1| bed. With a bockalips of finisky fore his feet and a barrowload of guennesis hoer his head. Tee the tootal of the fluid hang the twoddle of the fuddled, O!

Hurrah, there is but young glebe for the owl globe wheels in view which is testamount to the same thing. |1Well,1| Him, a being so on the flounder of his bulk, weighed down upon, let wee peep|1, see,1| at Hom, well, see peegee ought he ought? platterplate w. Hum! From
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Shopalist to Bailywick or from ashtun to baronoath or from Buythebanks to Roundthehead or from the foot of the bill to ireglint's eye, he calmly extensolies. And all the way his baywinds' oboboes shall wail him rockbound (|1hoahoahoath! hoahoahoah!1|) in swimswamswum and all the livvylong night, the delldale dalppling night, the night of bluerybells, her flittaflute in tricky trochees (O carina! O carina!) wake him. With her issavan essavans and her patterjackmartins about all them inns and ouses. Tilling a teel of a tum, telling a toll of a teary |1turdy Tublin turty Tubling1|. Grace before Gluttony. For what we are, gif we are, about to believe. So pooll the begg and pass the kish for crawsake. Omen. So sigh us. |1Grampupus is fallen down but grauny blank1| Whase on the joint of a desh? Finfoefom the Fush. Whase be his baken head? A loaf of Singpantry's kennedy bread. And whase hitched to the hop of his tayle? A glass of Danu U'Dunnell's foamous olde Dobbelin ayle. But, lo, as you would quaffoff his fraudstuff and sink teeth
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through that pyth of a flowerwhite |1body bodey1| behold |1of1| him |1as behe moth1| for he is nowheremore. |1Finnish. Finniche.1| Only a fadograph of a |1yesterworld's yester's world1|. Almost rubicund |1rohsalmon rohsalman1|, ancient |1of from out1| the ages of the Agapemonides, he is smolten in our mist, woebecanned and packed away. So that meal's dead off |1for someone1|, schlook, slice and goodridhirring.
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|1Yet1| May we not see still the |1brontoichthyan bromtoichthyan1| form outlined, aslumbered, even in our own nighttime by the banks of the troutling stream that Bronto loved and Bronto has a lean on? Whatif she be in flags or flitters, reekyrags or sundyeclosies, with a mint of monies or beggar a pinnyweight, arrah, sure we all love little Anny Ruiny, or, we mean to see, |1love little lovelittle1| Anna Rayiny, when under her brella, mid piddle |1med mod1| poddle, she ninnygoes nannygoes nancing by. Yoh! Bromtolone slaaps, yoh snoors! |1Upon Benn Heather, in Seeple Iseut too.1| The cranic head on him, |1castle caster1| of his reasons, peer yondmist. Whooth!? His clay feet, swarded in verdigrass, stick up starck where he last fellonem, by the mund of the magazine wall, where our maggies seen all, with her sister-in-shawl. While, over against this belles' alliance,
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beyind Ill Sixty, bagsides of the fort, bom, tarabom, tararabom, lurk the ombushes, the scene of the lyffing-in-wait of the upjock & hockums. Hence when the clouds roll by, jamey, a proudseye view is enjoyable of our mounding's mass, now Wallinstone national museum, with, in some greenish distance, the charmful waterloose country and they two quitewhite villagettes who |1hear here1| show of herselves so gigglesome minxt the follyages, the prettilees! Penetrators are permitted into the museomound free, welsh and the |1militaries paddy Patkinses1| one |1shillink shelenk1|. For her passkey supply to the janitrix, the Mistress Kate. Tip.
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This |1the way1| way the museyroom. Mind your hats goan in! Now yiz are in the Willingdone museyroom. This is a Prooshious gunn. This is a ffrinch. Tip. This is the flag of the Prooshious, the Cap & Soracer. This is the bullet that byng the flag of the Prooshious. This is the ffrinch that fire on the Bull that bang the flag of the Prooshious. Saloos the Crossgunn! Up with your pike and fork! Tip. This is the triplewon hat of Lipoleum. Tip. Lipoleumhat. This is the Willingdone on his |1same1| white harse, the Cokenheap. This is the big |1Sraughter Sraughther1| Willingdone, grand & magentic, in his goldtin spurs and his quarterbrass woodyshoes |1and his magnate's gharters1| and |1his bangkock's best |aand goliar's goloshesa|1| his pulluponeasyan wartrews. This is his big wide harse. Tip. This is the three lipoleum boyne grouching down in the living |1ditch detch1|.
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This is an innimyskilling inglis, this is a scotcher grey, this is a |1walshe one davy1|, stooping. This is the bog lipoleum mordering the lipoleum beg. This is the pitty lipoleum boy that was nayther bag nor |1big bug1|. Touchole Fitz Tuomush. Dirty Mac Dyke. And Hairy O'Hurry. All of them arminus-varminus. This is Delian alps. This is Mont |1Tiffel Tivel1|, this is Mont Tipsey, this is the grand Mons Injun. This is the crimmealine of the alps hooping to sheltershock the three lipoleums. This is the jinnies with their legohorns feinting to read in their handmade's book of stralegy while making their war undisides
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the Willingdone. The jinnies is a cooin her hand and the jinnies is a ravin her hair and the Willingdone git the band up. This is big Willingdone mormorial tallowscoop Wounderworker obscides on the flanks of the jinnies. |1Sexcaliber hrosspower.1| Tip. This is |1the my1| Belchum sneaking his philill philippy out ohi of his most toocisive bottle of Tilsiter. This is the libel on the battle. Awful Grimmest Sun'shat Cromwelly, Looted. This is the jinnies hastings dispatch for to irrigate the Willingdone. Dispatch in thin red lines across the shortfront of |1the my1| Belchum. |1Yaw, yaw, yaw!1| Leaper Orthor. Fieldgaze thy tiny frow! Hugacting. Nap. That was the tictacs of the jinnies
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for to fontannoy the Willingdone. Shee, shee, shee! The jinnies is jillous overall the lipoleums. And the lipoleums is boycotton onto the |1one1| Willingdone. And the Willingdone git the band up. This is |1the my1| Belchum, bonnet |v1and |awith toa|v1| busby, breaking his |1secret1| word with a ball up his ear to the Willingdone. This is the Willingdone's hurold dispitchback. Dispitch desployed on the regions rare of |1the my1| Belchum. |1Ayi, ayi, ayi!1| Cherry jinnies. Damn fairy ann. Voutre, Willingdone. Tip. That was the first joke of Willingdone tic for tac. Hee, hee, hee! This is |1the my1| Belchum in his twelvemile cowchooks footing the camp for the jinnies. Drinkasip, drankasup, for he'd |1as1| sooner buy a guinness than he'd |1sell sore |asteal stalea| store1| stout.
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This is Rooshious balls. This is a ttrinch. This is mistletropes, this is Canon Futter with the popynose, this is the blessed. This is jinnies in the bonny bawn blooches. This is lipoleums in the rowdy howses. This is the Willingdone, by the splinters of Cork, order fire. Tonerre! This is |1smokkings camelry1|, this is floodens, this is panickburns. This is Willingdone cry. Brum! Brum! Cumbrum! This is jinnies cry. Underwetter! |1Goat Ghoat1| strip Finnlambs! This is jinnies rinning away dowan a bunkersheels. With a trip on a trip on a trip on a tripsoairy. This is the bissmark This is |1the my1| Belchum's tinkyou tankyou |1silvoor plate1| for cotchin the crapes in the cool of his canister.
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This is the bissmark |1of the marathon merry1| of the jinnies they left behind them. This is the Willingdone branlish his |1same1| marmorial tallowscoop Sophy-key-po on the rinnaway jinnies. This is the |1three lipoleums third pitty Lipoleum |aToffeethiefa|1| that spy on the |1same1| Willingdone from his big white harse, the Capinhope. |1The Stonewall1| Willingdone is an old maxy maxy montrumeny. Lipoleums is pitty nice hung bushellors. This is the hinnessy spying the Willingdone, this is the lipsyg dooley krieging the funk from the hinnessy, this is the hinndoo Shimar Shin between the dooleyboy and the hinnessy. Tip. This is the wixy old Willingdone picket up the half of the threefoiled hat of Lipoleums from out of the bluddlefilth.
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This is the hinndoo waxing ranjymad for a bombshoob. This is the Willingdone hanking the half of the hat of lipoleums up the tail on the buckside of his big white harse. Tip. That was the last joke of Willingdone. Hit, hit, hit! This is the |1same white1| harse of the Willingdone Culpenhelp woggling his tailoscrupp with the half a hat to |1insoult on1| the hinndoo seeboy. |1Hney, hney, hney!1| This is the seeboy, madrashattaras, upjump and pumpim, cry to the Willingdone. Ap Pukkaru! Pukka Yurap! This is the Willingdone, |1born a gentleman, bornstable ghentleman,1| tinders his maxbotch to the cursigan Shimar Shin. This is the dooforhim seeboy blow the whole
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of the half of the hat of lipoleums off of the top of the tail on the back of his big wide harse. Tip. |1Here How1| Copenhagen |1ends ended1|. This way the museyroom. Mind your boots goan out.


What a warm time we were in there but how keling is here the airabouts! And such reasonable weather too! The wind's around the downs and on every blasted knollyrock there's that gnarlybird gathering up, a runalittle, doalittle, preealittle, porealittle, wipealittle, kicksalittle, severalittle, eatalittle, whinealittle, kenalittle, helpalittle, pelfalittle gnarlybird. She never comes out when Thon's on shower or when Thon's flash with the Nixy girls or when
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Thon's blowing toomcracks down the gaels of Thon. Her would be too moochy aveerd. |1She hopes till byes will be byes.1| |1Now Here & it goes on to appear now,1| she comes, a peacefugle, |1a parody's bird, a peri potmother,1| picking here, pecking there, pussypussy plunderpussy. |1She's But it's the armitides |anow and toonigh & to mourn we wish fora| a muddy kissmans & there's |agoinga| to be a truce for all the childers. So she's1| burrowed the coacher's lamp the better to |1see pry1| and all spoiled goods go into her nabsack: curtrages & rattlin buttins, nappy spattees & flasks of all nations, clavicures & scampulars, maps, keys & |1piles of pennies |apilings woodpilesa| of haypennies1| and moonlit brooches with bloostaned breeks in em |1and boaston nightgarters and masses of shoesets & nickelly nacks and fodder allmichael |aand a an lugly parson of cates & howitzer muchgearsa| & midgets & maggets & wells & wails1| and the last sigh that came fro the hart and the fairest sin the sun saw. |1With Kiss. Kiss Criss. Cross Criss. Kiss Cross. Undo lives end. Slain!1| How bootiful, and how truetowife of her |1when strengly forebidden1| to steal our |1historic1| presents from the past |1postpropheticals1|. So as to make us all |1lord1| heirs and ladyheiresses of a pretty nice kettle of fruit! |1She is liffing in our mists of debt & laffing unto tears for us with a nappron for a mask & her sabboes |ain the kickina| arias, if yous ask me & I saack you. Hou! Hou! Gricks may rise & Troysirs
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fall (there being two sights to every picture) for |aby ina| the |aways bywaysa| of |ahigha| improvidence
1| that's what makes lifework living and the world safe for citters to sit in. Let young women run away with the story and let young min talk smooth behind the butler's back she knows her |1night's knight's1| duty while Luntum sleeps. Did ye find any tin?, says he. Did I what? with a grin says she. And we all love Merryanne because she is mercernary. |1Though the whole land is under liquidation she'll |abuy a match loan a vestaa| & hire some peat & sarch the |aworld for a bit shores for cocklesa| to eat & she'll do all a turfwoman can to |apaff piffa| the business on. Paff! To puff the blaziness on. Puffpuff.1| And even if Humpty were to fall |1dumpty frumpty1| times as often again there'll be iggs for the brekkers come to mournhim. So true is it that therewhere's a turnover the
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tay is there too and when you think you catch sight of a hind make sure you're not |1caught cocked1| by a |1hun hin1|.

Then as she is on her behaviourite job we may take our review of the two mounds, to see nothing of the himples here |1and as at1| elsewhere |1at |ain bya|1| sixes and sevens, like so many |1higills and colleens hegills and collines1| sitting around|1, scentbreeched and somepotreek, |ain their unread |bseckret swishaswishb| satins and their taffetaffe tights,a|1| at an |1purty a treepurty1| in the purk. |1Get up, Mickyes. |aGet Standa| up, mickies. Make leave for minnies. By order, Nicholas Proud.1| We can see |1& hear1| nothing if we choose of the shortlegged bergins off Corkhill or the bergamoors of Arbourhill or the bergagambols of Summerhill or the bergincellies of Miseryhill or the countrybossed bergons of
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|1though every crowd has its 7 |anotes tonesa| and every note has its 7 harmonials & each harmonial has a point of its own, Olaf on the right and Ivar on the left with Sitric's place between them.1| But they are all there scraping away for a livelihood, hopping round his middle like |1a kipper kippers1| on a griddle, O, as he lies dormant from the macroberg of Holdhard to the microberg of Pied de Poudres. Behold this sound of Irish sense. Really? Here English might be seen. Royally? One sovereign punned to paltry pence?. Regally? |1And The1| silence speaks the scene. Fake!

So this is Dyoublong?

Hush! Caution! Echoland!

How charmingly exquisite! It reminds you of the fadeout engravure that |1we1| used to be blurring on the blotchwall of his innkempt house. Used they? (I am sure
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that tiring |1tramp chabelshoveller1| with the |1mujikal1| chocolot box, Miry Mitchel, is listening. I sayº the remains of the famous gravemure where used to be blurried the |1Tollmens |aPtolmens Ptollmensa|1| of the Incabus. Used we? (He is only |1pretending to be tugging pretendant to be stugging1| at the |1jubalee1| harp from a second |1tired existed1| lishener, Fiery Farrelly) It is well known. Look for himself. Hear? By the mausolime wall. Fimfim fimfim. With a grand funferall. Fumfum fumfum.

They will be tuggling foriver
They shall be lishening forallof.
They shall be pretumbling forover.
The harpsdishord shall be theirs forollaves

Four things therefore, saith |1|athe oura| herodotary1| Mammon Lujius in his grand old historiorum writ
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near Boriorum, |1the bluest book in the race's annals,1| in Dyfflinarsky ne'er sall fail till heathersmoke and cloudweed Eire's isle sall pall. And here now they are the four of them. Unum. A bulbenhead surmounted upon an alderman. Ay, ay! Duum. A shoe on a pore old |1oman wuman1|. Ah, ho! |1Triom.1| An auburn mayde, a brine a bride, to be desarted. Adear, adear! Quodlibus. A pen no weightier nor a polepost. And so. And all.

|1The So1| annals of themselves bring |1easily1| to pass how

1132 A.D. Men like to ants wondern upon a groot wide |1wallfisch Wallfisch1| th which lay in a Runnel. Blubby wares upat |1Eblanium Ublanium1|.

566 A.D. On Ballfire's eve of this year a crone that hadde a
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wickered kish for to hale dead turves from the bog lookit under the blay of her kish as she ran and found hersell sackvulle of swart goody quickenshoon, and small illigant brogues. Bluchy works at Hurdlesford.


566 A.D. At this time it fell out that |1a1| brazenlocked |1maidens maiden1| grieved because |1their her1| minion was |1ravished of them ravisht of her1| by the ogre Europeus Pius. Bloody wars in Ballyaughacleeaghbally.

1132 A.D. Two sons at an hour were born unto a goodman and his hag. These sons were named Caddy and Primas. Primas was a sentryman and drilled by decent people. Caddy went to Winehouse
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and wrote a peace of farce. Blotty words for Dublin.

Yet after all that now how peac paisibly eri eirinical, all dimmering dunes and gloamering glades, selfstretches afore us |1this our1| friedland's plain! |1|aLeana| The pastor lies with his crook: |athe younga| pricket |aby pricket's sistera| |anibbles nibbletha| on viri returned viridies: amaid |athe hera| grasses the herb trinity shams lowliness: skyup is of evergrey. Thus, too, for donkey's years.1| Since the |1days bouts1| of Hebear and Hairyman the cornflowers have been staying at Ballymun, the duskrose has choosed out Goatstown's hedges, twolips have pressed togatherthem by sweet Rush, townland of twinlights, the whitethorn and the redthorn have fairygayed the mayvalleys of Knockmaroon: and though for rings round them during a |1hundred thousand yeargangs chiliad of periheli perihelygangs1| the Formoreans have brittled the Tooath of the Danes and the Oxman has been pestered by the
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Firebugs and the Joynts have thrown up wallmaking and Little on the Green is childsfather to the city, these paxsealing buttonholes have quadrilled across the centuries and here now whiff to us, fresh and |1maid-of-all-smiles made-of-all-smiles1| as on the day of Killallwhoo.

The babbelers with their |1tangas thangas1| have been |1(Congfusium hold them!)1|, they were and went, thigging thugs, were and houhnhym songtoms were and comely norgels were and pollyfool fiancées. Men have thawed, clerks have surssurhummed, the blond has sought of the brune: |1Else kiss Elsekiss1| thou may, mean kerry piggy?: and the duncledames have countered |1to with1| the hellish fellows: Who ails tongue coddeau, aspace
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of dumbillsilly? And they fell upong one another: and themselves they have fallen. Yet still nowanights and by nights of yore do all bold floras of the field to their shyfaun lovers say only: Cull me ere I wilt to thee!: and, but a little later,: Pluck me whilst I blush! Well may they wilt, marry, and profusedly blush, be troth! For that saying is as old as the howitts. |1Lay Lave1| a whale |1a while1| in a whillbarrow (isn't it the truath I'm tallin ye?) to have fins and flippers that shimmy and shake. |1Tim |aTimmigan Timmycana| timped her, timpting Tom.1|

|1Name In the name1| of Anem this kerl on the kopje who the joebiggar |1big be1| he? Forshapen, his pigmayde hoagshead, shroonk, his plodsfoot. |1Heseemeth Meseemeth1| a mansman. |1He is almonthst on the quiy vive here, is Comestipple Sackson, be it junipery, febrewery, malt or alebrill or the ramping riots of froriose & |astoriose pouriosea|. What a quhare soort of a mahon!1|
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He will |1post us |aprapspost prapsposterousa|1| the |1queerest pillory1| way to the pillar. Scuse us, |1chorley1| guy! You tollerday donsk? N. You tolkatiff Scowegian? Nn. You spiggotty anglease? Nnn. You phonio saxo? Nnnn. Clear all so. 'Tis a Jute. Let us swop hats and excheck a few strong verbs weak oach eather about the blooty kreeks.

Jute — |1Jute! Juta!1|

Mutt — Mutt's pleasure!

Jute — Are you jeff?

Mutt — Somehards.

Jute — But you are not jeffmute?

Mutt — |1No Noho1|, only an utterer.

Jute — Whoa? What is the mutter with you?

Mutt — I became |1a ston1| a stummer.

Jute — What a hauhauhauhaudible thing to be cause! How|1, Mutt1|?

Mutt — |1Upat Aput1| the buttle|1, surd1|.

Jute — Whose Poddle? Wherein?

Mutt — The Inns of Dungtarf where Used |1ought awe1| to be.

Jute — You are almost inedible to |1he me1|. Become a bitskin more
{ms, 030}
wiseable, as if I were you.

Mutt — Urp Boohooru! Booru Usurp! I trumple from rath in mine mines when I rememmerem.

Jute — Let me cross your qualm with trinkgilt. Here |1is have silvan1| coyne, a peace of oaks.

Mutt — How wooden I not know it, the greytclok greytcloak of Cedric Silkyshag! |1|aIndelible! |bIntelible! Intellible!b|a|1| He is Him him, Thorme Thormontor! He was poached on in that eggtentical spot. Here when the liveries. |1Monomark.1| There where the missers moony, Minnikin Passe.

Jute — Sumply because, as Taciturn pretells, our wrongstoryshortener, he dumptied the wholebarrow of rubbages on to soil here?

Mutt — Just how a puddingstone inat the brookcells by a riverpool.

Jute — Load allmarshey! Wid wad for a norse like?

Mutt — Somular with a bull on a Clompturf. Rooks roarum rex Roome! I could snore to him, woolsely side in,º by the neck I am sutton on, did Brian O'Flinn.
{ms, 031}

Jute — Boiledoyle and rawhony on me when I can |1|abeurely beuralya|1| forstand such |1a patwhot1| as your rutterdamrotter, |1unheard of and unscene onheard of and umscene1|! Gut aftermeal! See you doomed!

Mutt — |1Rest Save1| a sec. Walk a |1look dun blink1| roundward |1this allbutisle1|. You will see how olde ye plaine|1, |aflat hunfree and ours,a|1| from Inn the Bygning to Finisthere Punct. Countlessness of livestories have netherfallen here, flick as |1snowflakes slowflakes1|, |1continuunreading litters from aloft1|, like a wast wizzard all of whirlwords. Now are all tombed to the mound. And the mound has swollup them. Ishges to ishges, erde from merde erde. |1Pride, O pride! Thy prize!1|

|1Jute — 'Stench!1|

|1Mutt — Fiatfuit! Jute — Hereinunder they lie. Llarge by the smal |aand an'a| everynight life |aand also olsoa| th'estrange, babylone the greatgrandhotelled with tit tit tittlehouse, alp on earwig, likeas equal |aand toa| unequal in the sound seemetery of sleep.1|

|1Jute — Zwoums!1|

|1Mutt —1| And |1the |athe ancestral thanacesth thanacestrossa|1| mound have swollup them |1all1|. This ourth of years is not, save brickdust |1and being humus the same |areturns roturnsa|1|. He who runes may rede it on all fours. O'castle O'c'stle, new'c'stle, tr'c'stle crumbling! Sell me sooth the |1way fare1| for Humblin! |1Humblaty Fair.1| But speak it all so siftly|1, moulder1|! Be in your whisht!

Jute — Whysht?

Mutt — |1The gyant Forficules with |aAmnia| the fay.1| Here is viceking's |1soil |aground graaba|1|.

Jutt Jute — |1Hwad! Hwaad!1|

Mutt — |1Are Ore1| you astoneaged, jute you?

Jute — |1Eye Oye1| am thonthorsthrok, thing mud!