Typescript of §1, September 1923; 1st typescript §2-3, December 1923-early 1927, I.2 draft level 3

MS British Library 47472 102-105; 139-146 Draft details

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|3Concerning Nowº, concerningº3| the genesis of Harold or Humphrey Chimpden's |3occupational3| agnomen and discarding once for all those theories from older sources which would link him back with such pivotal ancestors as the Glues, the Gravys|3, theº Northeasts, the Ankers3| and the Earwickers of |3Sidham Sidlesham3| in the Hundred of Manhood or proclaim him a descendant of vikings who had founded or settled in Herrick or Eric, the best authenticated version has it that it was this way. We are told how in the beginning it came to pass that, like cabbaging Cincinnatus, the grand old gardener was saving daylight one sultry sabbath afternoon in prefall paradise peace by following his plough for rootles in the rere garden of ye olde marine hotel when royalty was announced by runner to have been pleased to have halted itself on the highroad along which a leisureloving dogfox had cast followed, also at walking pace, by a lady pack of cocker spaniels. Forgetful of all save his vassal's plain
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fealty to the ethnarch, Humphrey or Harold stayed not to yoke or saddle but stumbled out hotface as he was (his sweatful bandanna loose from his pocketcoat), hasting to the forecourts of his public in topee, surcingle, plus fours and bulldog boots ruddled with red marl, jingling his turnpike keys and bearing aloft amid the fixed pikes of the hunting party a high perch atop of which a flowerpot was fixed earthside up with care. On his majesty, who was, or often feigned to be, noticeably longsighted from green youth and had been meaning to inquire what|3, in effect,3| had caused |3the yon3| causeway to be so potholed, asking, substitutionally, to be put wise as to whether paternoster and silver doctors were not now more fancied bait for lobstertrapping, honest blunt Haromphreyld answered in no uncertain tones very similarly with a fearless
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forehead: Naw, yer maggers, aw war jist a cotchin on thon bluggy earwuggers. Our sailor king, who was draining a gugglet of obvious water, upon this, ceasing to swallow, smiled most heartily beneath his walrus moustaches and, indulging that none too genial humour which William the Conk on the spindle side had inherited with the hereditary whitelock and some shortfingeredness from his greataunt Sophy, turned towards two of his retinue of gallowglasses, Michael, etheling lord of Leix in Offaly, and the jubilee mayor of Drogheda, Elcock, the two scatterguns being Michael |3M3| Manning, protosyndic of Waterford, and an Italian excellency named Giubilei according to a later version cited by the learned scholarch Canavan of Canmakenoise, and remarked dilsydulsily: Holybones, how our red brother of Pouringrainia would audibly fume did he know that we have for trusty bailiwick a turnpiker who is by turns a pikebailer no |3less seldomer3| than an |3earwicker earwigger3|! Comes the question: are these the facts as recorded in both or either of the collateral andrewpomurphyc narratives? We shall perhaps not so soon see. The great fact |3remains emerges3| that after that historic date all holographs so far exhumed initialled by Haromphrey bear the sigla H.C.E. and while he was only and long and always good dook Umphrey for the hungerlean spalpeens of Lucalizod and Chimbers to his cronies it was equally certainly a pleasant turn of the populace which gave him as sense of those normative letters the nickname Here Comes Everybody.
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An imposing everybody he always indeed looked, constantly the same as himself and magnificently well worthy of |3any and all3| such universalisation, every time he continually surveyed from good start to happy finish the truly catholic assemblage gathered together from all quarters unanimously to applaud Mr W. W. Semperkelly's immergreen |3company tourers3| in the |3problem3| passion play of the millentury A Royal Divorce with ambitious interval band selections from The Bo' Girl and The Lily on all gala command nights from his viceregal booth where, a veritable Napoleon the Fourth, |3the this3| father of the people all of the time sat, having the entirety of his house about him, with the invariable broadstretched kerchief cooling his whole neck, nape and shoulderblades and in a wardrobepanelled tuxedo completely thrown back from a shirt well entitled a swallowall, on every point far outstarching the laundered clawhammers and marbletopped highboys of the pit stalls and early |3gallery amphitheatre3|. A baser meaning has been read into these characters the literal sense of which decency can safely scarcely hint. It has been blurtingly bruited by certain wisecracks that he suffered from a vile disease. To such a suggestion the one selfrespecting answer is to affirm that there are certain statements which ought not to be and, one should like to be able to add, ought not to be allowed to be made. Nor have his detractors, who, an imperfectly warmblooded race, apparently conceive him as a great white caterpillar capable of any and every enormity in the calendar recorded to the discredit of the Juke and Kellikek families, mended their case by insinuating that, alternatively, he |3was lay3| at one time under the ludicrous imputation of annoying Welsh fusiliers in the |3people's3| park. To anyone
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who knew and loved the Christlikeness of the big cleanminded giant H. C. Earwicker throughout his long existence the mere suggestion of him as a lustsleuth nosing for trouble in a boobytrap rings particularly preposterous. Truth compels one to add that there is said to have once been some case of the kind implicating, it is sometimes believed, a quidam about that time walking around Dublin with a bad record who has remained completely anonymous but was, it is stated, posted at Mallon's at the instance of watch warriors of the vigilance committee and years afterwards, writes one, seemingly dropped dead whilst waiting for a chop somewhere near Hawkins Street. Slander, let it lie its flattest, has never been able to convict that good and great and no ordinary Southron Earwicker, as a pious author calls him, of any graver impropriety than that, advanced by some woodward or regarder who did not dare deny that he had that day consumed the soul of the corn, of having behaved in an ungentlemanly manner opposite a pair of dainty maidservants in the greenth of the rushy hollow whither, or so the two gown and pinners pleaded, Dame Nature |3in all |ainnocence innocencya|3| had spontaneously and about the same hour of the eventide sent them both but whose published combinations of testimonies are, where not dubiously pure, visibly divergent on minor points touching the intimate nature of this, a first offence in vert or venison which was admittedly an incautious but, at its widest, a partial exposure with |3such3| attenuating circumstances |3of as3| an abnormal Saint Martin's summer and a ripe occasion to provoke it.

Guiltless |3of much laid to him3| he was clearly for so once at least he clearly and with still a trace of his erstwhile burr declared himself to be and |3we know it has been received3| that it is true. They tell the story that one happy-go-gusty |3April Ides-of-Aprilº3| morning (the anniversary, as it fell out, of his first |3donning assuming3| of |3youth's trousers his mirthday suit rights |ato the confusioning of human racesa|3|) long after the alleged misdemeanour when the tried friend of |3nature nature,º tigerwood roadstaff to his stay,º3| was billowing across the wide expanse of our greatest park in his |3caoutchouc kepi &3| rubberised inverness he met a cad with a pipe. The latter|3, who |a(the odds are)a| is still going about, |a|bcarryingº his coat under his arm andb| signing the pledge as gaily as |bever you pleaseb|,ºa|3| hardily accosted him with |3howdoyoudo: guiness thawº tool?º3| (a |3common phrase nice how-do-you-doº3| in Dublin at the time |3as some of our |aoldfellows oldtimersa| can still tremblinglyº recall3|) to ask could he tell |3him3| how much o'clock it was that the clock struck had he any idea by cock's luck |3as his watch was bradys3|. |3Earwicker The Earwicker of that spurring instant3|, realising on fundamental |3liberal3| principles the supreme importance of physical life |3(the nearest help relay being |apingpingºa| K.O.º Saint Patrick's Day and the fenian risingº)3| and unwishful as he felt of being sent into eternity, plugged by a softnosed bullet from the sap, halted, quick on the draw, and|3,º replyinº |athata| he wasº |afeelinºa| tipstaff, cue,3| produced from his gunpocket his |3Jurgensen's3| shrapnel waterbury but, at the same instant hearing above the skirling of harsh Mother East old Fox Goodman|3, over the wastes to south,3| |3at work work one3| upon the five ton tenor bell in the speckled church, told the inquiring |3cad kidder|a, by Johovaº,a|3| it was |3butt3| twelve |3punctual |aof thema| sidereal3|, adding |3however buttall3|, as he |3bent down bended deeply|a, with smoked sardinish breath,ºa|3| to give more weight to |3his utterance the copperstick he presented3|, that the |3hakusay3| accusation against him had been made, what was well known in high quarters, by a creature in human form who was several degrees lower than a |3tri treblehydrad3| snake. In greater support of his |3words word3| (|3they have it, quaint anticipation of a famous phrase, hasº3| been reconstructed |3and tosammenstucked3| from successive accounts |3by Noah Webster3| in the redaction known as the Sayings |3Attributive3|
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of H. C. Earwicker|3, price oneº schillings3|) the flaxen |3giant Gygas3| tapped his |3chronometer chronometrum3| and, now standing full erect |3above the ambijacent floodplain,º3| with one Berlin gauntlet pointed |3(in ancientest signlore his gesture meaning blank3| towards the |3iron duke's duc de Fer'sº3| overgrown milestone |3& theº fellow for his gage3| after a |3Macready readypresentº3| pause averred with solemn |3emotion emotion's fire3|: |3Credit me, comrade. |aShake Shsh shakea|, co-comrade!º3| I have won straight. Hence my |3nationwide no-nationwideº3| hotel and general business and |3for the honours of our mewmew mutual daughters3| I am |3woowoo3| willing|3, credit me, even if I get life for it3| to take my stand, sir, upon the monument, that sign of our |3ruru3| redemption, any hygienic day at this hour and to declare |3to my |adearºa| sinnfinners3| upon the Open Bible |3befuº3| before the Great Taskmaster's eye |3(I lift my hat!)º3| and in the Presence of the Deity Itself as well as of my immediate |3neighbours withdwellers3| and of every living |3soul sohule3| in every corner wheresoever of this globe in general |3acquainted with the which useth with my3| British |3to my backbone3| tongue and commutative justice |3even if I got life for it,3| that there is not one tittle of truth|3, allow me to tell you,3| in that purest of |3fibfib3| fabrications. |3The cad Gaping Gill3|, |3who,3| diagnosing |3at once through hisº eustacetube3| that he had to do with a markedly
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postpuberal hyperpituitary type |3of Heidelbergmanlike blank ethics3|, like a sensible |3man ham3| thanked |3him, sir,3| for |3guilders received and3| the time of day |3bad him good murrough3| (not a little taken aback all the same that that was |3all the time owl the God's clock3| it was) |3and went about his business,º wherever it was, af accompanied by his trusty snarlerº and his permanent reflection |aofa|,º I have met you either too late, or if not, too early:º3| and repeated |3verbatim in his secondmouth language3| as many of the |3verbaten3| words as he could |3balbly3| call to memory that same evening |3at |acome whena|3| suppertide |3came gently to quiet greyblue Charletan Mall |aand along the quiet darkenings of Grand & Royal |b|cas flitmouse flew and it crept in hedge, ff, the flittmansfluh and, kk, 't crept i' hedgec|b| as to many a |bsofty softtongue'sºb| pawkytalk mude unswer a sufter pogyyog,a|3| while he spat |3carefully in careful convertedness3| about his |3hearthstone hearthstone,3| |3in museful thought musefed with thoughts3| after having supped of |3the dish named Peach Bombay,º3| |3very supremely excellent a supreme of excelling3| peas boiled |3with into3| whitemalt |3vinegar |awinesour winesowre and rootiea|3|, a proviand |3which with a chaser of perry3| he frankly relished|3, chaff it,3| in the raw season. |3The cad's wife Our cad's bit of strifeº with a quick ear for spittoonsº3| (as the aftertale |3has hath3| it) |3gleaned up |aas usual with her usual domestic husbandry &a|3| |3spoke broke3| of the matter |3with her usual curtsey3| the next night |3but nudge3| one |3over a cup o' cha3| |3after sodality meeting after sodality kneeling3| to |3the her particular3| reverend, the director, whom she had been meaning |3in her mind primarily3| to speak with, trusting|3, between cuppled lips,º3| it would |3go slipº3| no further than his |3jesuit's3| cloth, yet it was |3he this romish priest,º Mr Browne,3| in all human likelihood|3, disguised as a vicentianº,3| who, when seized of the facts, was overheard |3in his secondary personality as a Nolan,º3| by accident — if, indeed, |3it the incidentº3| was an accident — to |3repeat pianissime3| a slightly varied version of the words|3,º hands between hands, in fealty sworn,º3| |3to and hushly pierce the rubiend ear of |aone Philly |bThorston Thorntonb|,ºa|3| a layteacher of rural science and |3school gardening orthophonetics3| of a nearstout figure and in the middle
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|3forties of his forties,º3| during a priestly flutter for safe and sane |3bets lds3| at the |3racecourse hippic runfields3| of breezy Baldoyle on a date easily capable of remembrance by all |3good turfites pickersupº of Dublinº details3| when the |3classic3| Encourage Selling Plate was captured by two lengths from Bold Boy Cromwell after a clever getaway by Captain |3D. Chaplain3| Blount's |3fresh colt Drummer Coxon roe hinny Saint Dalough (Drummer Coxon third)º3| at breakneck odds, thanks to you, great little |3Danny Frush, Winny Widger,3| who in his neverrip mud and purple |3cap was3| surely |3miles3| unlike any other |3jockey phantomweight3| that ever |3happened topped the timber maggies3|.

It was two coves of the name of Treacle Tom, as was just out of pawn following the theft of a leg of pork, and his own blood and milk brother professionally known as Frisky Shorty|3,º a tipsterº3| come off the hulks, both of them awful poor, what was out on the bumaround for an oofbird game for a jimmy o'goblin or a small thick un as |3heard chanced to ear |awick their own hearsºa|3| the parson in the motor clobber make use of the language which he was |3rubbing noses with and3| having a gurgle off his own along of the butty bloke in the specs. This Treacle Tom to whom reference has been made had been absent from his usual wild and woolly haunts for some time previous to that (he was, in fact, in the habit of frequenting common lodginghouses where he slept|3, hailfellow with meth,3| in a nude state in strange men's bunks) but on racenight blotto after divers tots of rum he sought his wellwarmed bed in a |3house of call housingroomº |a|bColumbarium Abide With Oneanotherºb|a|3| at Block W, Pump Court, The Liberties, and |3repeated resnored alcoherently3| the substance of the tale |3of the evangelical |abusybody busybozzya|3| in parts more than once during uneasy slumber in the joint hearing of a |3discharged small and stonybroke3| cashdraper's |3executive ex-executive,º3| Peter Cloran |3(discharged)3|, |3O'Donnell O'Mara3|, |3a |aa former an ex-privateºa|3| secretary of no fixed abode (locally known as |3Cruck |aMildewa| Lisa3|) who had passed several nights|3, funnish enough,3| in a doorway |3under the blankets of homelessness on the bunk of iceland,º3| and Hosty, an illstarred beachbusker who, |3sans rootie and sans blank,3| feeling |3suicidal as how he was on |athe hisa| verge of selfabyss |awith melancoholiaº over everything in general a|3|, had been tossing on his shakedown, devising ways and |3mannersº of3| means of somehow or other getting a hold of some chap's parabellum in the hope of lighting upon a dive somewhere off the |3main tramline Dullkey Downlairy and Bleakrooky tramaline3| where he could go and blow the napper off himself in peace and quietness, he having been trying all he knew for over eighteen |3months colandersº3| to get into Jervis Street |3hospital hosspittle3| without having been able to wangle it anysides. |3O'Mara Lisa O'Dara3| and |3Peter Doran Roche Moran |a(whoº had so much incommonº, if the phrase be permitted,º hostis et odor insuper petroperfractus)a|3| as an understood thing slept in the one |3bed tumbler bed3| with Hosty |3just |alike howa| the shavers in the shaw |aand a good night's rest und rumble with his co-exes H was not the same mana|3| and the bustling tweeny dawn-of-all-work had not been very many hours furbishing potlids, doorbrasses, scholars' applecheeks and linkboys' metals when the rejuvenated busker and his broadawake bedroom suite were up and |3afoot crosstown |aasnoop ashufflea| cross |aEblan's Ebblinn'sa| cold hamlet3| to the thrumming of a crewth fiddle |3which caressed the ears of the subjects of King Finnerty the Festive,º |awho, with their mouths all open, were only halfpast asleep,ºa|3| and, after a |3prolonged3| visit to a |3publichouse house of call in Cujas |aRow Place a|3| not a thousand national leagues from the site of |3Parnell's statue the statue of Primewer Glasstone setting a match to the march of a blank,º3| where, the tale |3runs on rambles
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3|, the trio of whackfolthediddlers were shortly joined by a |3further further-intentions-apply-tomorrowº3| casual and a decent sort of the hadbeen variety who had just |3pocketed been |apocketing touchinga|3| the weekly insult|3, phew itº,3| and all had stimulants in the shape of five gee and gees stood by the |3damn3| decent sort after which |3stag luncheon and a few ones more |a|bto celebrate yesterdayb|, flushed with their firestufffosteredº friendship,a|3| the rascals came out of the licensed premises |3|a(Browneº firsta|, the |aexecutive small |bp.s. ex-ex-executiveºb|a| in the sad rear of them, capahand, like a lady's |aP.S. postscripta|: I want money. Pleasend.)º3| wiping their |3mouth laughleaking |amouths lipesa|3| on their |3sleeve sleeves3|, the world was the richer for a |3new halfpenny wouldbe3| ballad. This was first poured forth |3|ato the fiddling of Delany, the decent sort who had stumbled out & was like his namesake when you seem to look at him, to the stepjigging added strains of his majesty the flute which, Delany, the decent sort drew out of his hat, looking still more like his namesake as men noted the snowy crested curl amid his wild & moulting haira|3| under the shadow of the monument of the shouldhavebeen legislator to an overflow meeting |3of all the nations in Lenster3| fullyfilling the visional area and easily representative of all sections and cross sections of |3the Irish our |aDublinese liffeysideºa|3| people ranging
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from slips of young |3Dublins dublinos from Cutpurse Row3| |3with pocketed hands with their hands in their kneepants3| having nothing to do except walk about |3|xtheir hands in their kneepants x|3| side by side with |3truant officers,3| corporation bucket emergencymen in search of an honest crust to busy professional gentlemen, a brace of palesmen fresh from |3snipeshooting snipehitting & mallardmissing3| on Rutland Heath with dundrearies exchanging cold sneers, massgoing
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ladies |3from Hume Street3| in their chairs, some wandering |3pigs hamalegs3| from the adjacent cloverfields, an oblate father |3from Skinner'sº Alley3|, bricklayers|3, a fleming with spouse and dog, an aged |aman bareheada| who had some |achildren chisellersºa| by the handº, |a|bsome not a fewb| sheepº with the braxy,a| three bluecoat scholars, |atwo threea| broke gents out of Simpson's suffering hell's delights from their horns,º3| and so on not forgetting |3|aa deuce of dianas ridy for the hunt,a| a |aparticularista| prebendary pondering on the |aRoman question roman easterºa|, |athe tonsure question & greek uniatesº, plunk em,a|3| one or two |3good3| old souls obviously under the spell of liquor |3|xone who clings |a& clings & clingsa| to the |acloudred cloudhueda| petticoat as child, as curiolater, as Caoch O'Learyx|3|.

Word |3went poured3| round|3, so it did,º3| and the ballad, printed on a slip of |3blue paper blancowhite3| headed by a rough |3and red3| woodcut, soon fluttered on |3white3| highway and |3brown3| byway to the rose of the winds |3and the whispery gaels,º3| from |3greenº3| laneway to |3goldº3| lattice and from |3mouth black hand3| to |3pink3| ear|3, village crying to village,º3| throughout the five |3corners pussyfours3| of the united states of |3Ireland. Scotia Picta. |aThe chickpea would a rolling go whether our farmer would have it or no.a|3|

|3|aAmid the plaudits of the rapsods Amid a perfect downpour of plaudits among the rapsodsa| |xHitchcock hoisted his fezzy |acap fuzza| at bludgeon's height for “silentium in curia!º and the canto was chantied near the old tollgate.x|3| So around the land this rann it ran and this is the rann that Hosty made.

Sure leave it to Hosty, frosty Hosty, leave it to Hosty for he's the man to rhyme the rann, the rann, the rann, the king of all wranns. So: |3Have you here? Have we where? Have you hered? Have we whered? It's coming! It'sº bromming! The clip, the clop!º the (blank3|

(as sung by Phoblacht)º

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Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty
How he fell with a roll and a rumble
And |3lay low curled up3| like Lord Oliver Crumple
By the |3back butt3| of the Magazine Wall,

Of the Magazine Wall,

|3Magazine wall? Hump, helmet and all?º3|

He was one time our king of the castle
Now he's kicked about like a rotten old parsnip
And from Green Street he'll be sent by order of His Worship
To the penal jail of Mountjoy,

To the jail of Mountjoy.

Jail him and joy.

He had schemes by the score for to bother us
Slow coaches and immaculate contraceptives for the populace,
Mare's milk for the sick, seven dry Sundays a week,
Openair love and religious reform,

And religious reform,

Hideous in form.

Arrah, why, says you, couldn't he manage it?
I'll go bail, my |3big fine3| dairyman darling,
Like the bumping bull of the Cassidys
All your butter is in your horns.

His butter is in his horns.

Butter his horns!

Hurrah there, Hosty, frosty Hosty, |3change that shirt on yo ye,3| rhyme the rann|3,3| the king of all ranns!

We had chops, chairs, chewing gum, the chickenpox and china chambers
Universally supplied by this softsoaping salesman.
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Small wonder |3Here Comes Everybody He'll Cheat blank3| our local lads nicknamed him
When Chimpden first took the floor

And he took the floor,

O'er and o'er.
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So snug he was in his hotel premises sumptuous
But soon we'll bonfire all his trash and his trumpery
And 'tis short till Sheriff Clancy'll be winding up his unlimited company
With the bailiff's bum at the door,

With a bum at the door.

He'll bum no more.

Sweet bad luck on the waves washed to our island
The hooker of that hammerfast viking
And God's curse on the day when Eblana Bay
Saw his black and tan man-o'-war,

Saw his man-o'-war

On the harbour bar.

Where from? roars Poolbeg. Cookingha'pence, he bawls, Donnezmoi scampitle, wick an wipin' fampiny
Fingal MacOscar Onesime Bargearse Boniface
Thok's min |3cammelhole gammelhole3| Norveegickes moniker
Og as ay are at |3cammelhole gammelholeº3| Norveegickes cod.

A Norwegian camelold cod.

He is, begod.

Lift it, Hosty, lift it, ye devil ye! Up with the rann, the rhyming rann!

It was during some freshwater garden pumping
Or, according to the Nursing Mirror, while admiring the monkeys
That our heavyweight heathen |3Humphrey Humpharey3|
Made bold a maid to woo.

|3A maid he would woo Hoo, what'll she doo!3|

|3And wooed her too She lost her maidenloo!3|
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He ought to blush for himself, the old |3hayhaired hayheaded3| philosopher,
To go and shove himself that way on top of her.
Begob, he's the crux of the catalogue
Of our |3pathological antediluvial3| zoo,

|3Our illogical zoo. Messrs Billing and Coo.3|

|3Who woos in the zoo ? Noah's larks, good as noo.3|

He was joulting |3beyond by the by Wellinton's3| monument
Our rotarian |3hippopotamus hippopotamuns3|
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When some bugger let down the backtrap of the omnibus
And he caught his death of fusiliers,

|3His death of fusiliers. With his rent in his rears.3|

Give him six years.

'Tis sore pity for his two poor children
But look out for his missus legitimate!
When that frew gets a grip of old Earwicker
Won't there be earwigs on the green?

Big earwigs on the green,

|3All over the green? The largest ever youº seen.3|

Then we'll have a free trade band and mass meeting
For to sod the brave son of Scandinavia
And we'll bury him down in Oxmanstown
Along with the devil and Danes,

With the devil and Danes,

And all their remains.

And not all the king's men nor his horses
Will resurrect his corpus
For there's no true spell in Connacht or hell

That's able to raise a Cain.