Le Navire d'argent

2nd typescript, June 1925, I.8 draft level 4

MS British Library 47474 142-159 Draft details

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tell me all about
Anna Livia! I want to hear

all about Anna Livia. Well, you know Anna Livia? Yes, of course, we all know Anna Livia. Tell me all. Tell me now. You'll die when you hear. Well, you know, when the old chap went phut and did what you know. Yes, I know, go on. Wash away and don't be dabbling. Tuck up your sleeves and loosen your talktapes. Or whatever it was they try to make out he tried to do in the Phoenix Park. He's an awful old rep. Look at the shirt of him! Look at the dirt of it! He has all my water black on me. And it steeping and stuping since this time last week. How many times is it I wonder I washed it? I know by heart the places he likes to soil. Scorching my hand and starving my famine to make his private linen public. Wallop it well with your battle and clean it. My wrists are rusty rubbing the |4mouldy mouldaw4| stains. And the |4loads dneepers4| of wet and the |4sewers gangres4| of sin in it! What was it he did at all at all on Animal Sunday? And how long was he under lough and neagh? It was put in the papers what he did|4, illysus distilling and all4|. But time will tell. I know it will. Time and tide will wash for no man. O, the old old rep! And the cut of him! And the strut of him! How he used to hold his head as high as a howeth with a hump of grandeur on him like a walking rat! What age is he at all at all? Or where was he born or how was he found and were him and her ever spliced? I heard he got some |4money tin4| with her when he brought her home in a perokeet's cage, the quaggy way for stumbling. Who sold you that jackalantern's tale? In a gabbard he landed, the boat of life, and he loosed two croakers from under his tilt, the old Phenician rover. By the smell of her kelp they made the pigeonhouse. |4Like fun they did but where was |ahimself Himselfa|? The merchantman he follied their scutties right over the wash, his cameleer's burnous breezing upo up on him, till with his runagate bowmpriss he rode and broke her bar. Paleiliou! Och, I'm kilt! Tune
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your pipes and fall ahumming, you born
idiot, and you're nothing short of |ait onea|! When they saw him shoot by up her sheba sheath, like any gay lord salomon, they |athe hera| bulls they were roaring, surfed with spree. Nooknoorum nyroo! Nooknoorum nyroo! He erned |aher his lille |bBunbad Bunbathb|,a| |awell harda|, our staly bred, the trader. He did. Look at here. In this wet of his prow.
4| |4Don't Didn'tº4| you know |4he's he was4| a bairn of the sea, Waterhouse the waterbaby? O, I know, so he was. H.C.E. has a cockly ee. Sure, she's nearly as bad as him herself. Who? Anna Livia? Ay, Anna Livia! Do you know she was calling |4backwater4| girls from all around to go in till him, her erring man, and tickle him easy? She was? Go to God! O, tell me all I want to hear. Letting on she didn't care, the proxenete! Proxenete and what is that? Were you never at school? It's just the same as if I was to go for example now and proxenete you. For God' sake and is
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that what she is? Didn't you spot her in her windeye, standing up on a rickety chair, pretending to ripple a |4tune or two |arime or two wave or twoa|4| on a fiddle she has without a bottom? Sure she can't fiddlededee, top or bottom! Of course, she can't! All a blind. Well, I never heard the like of that! Tell me more. Tell me all.

Well, old Humber was as glum as a grampus, setting moping on his benk, |4where he'd check |athe theira|
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in that mormon's thames and,
4| hungerstriking all alone and holding doomsdag over himself, dreeing his weird with his dander up and his fringe combed over his eygs and keeking on loft till the |4face sight4| of the sternes. You'd think all was dead belonging to him. He had been belching for over a year. And there she was, Anna Livia, she couldn't snatch a wink of sleep, purling around like a chit of a child, in a |4short summer Lapsummer4| skirt and painted cheeks. And an odd time she'd cook him up blooms of fisk and lay |4at his feet till to his heartsfoot4| her meddery eygs and |4staynish4| beacons on |4toask toasc and a4| shinking bread for to plaise that man hog stay his stomicker |4till her knees were worn to nutmeg gratersº4|, and as rash as she'd rush with them up on her tray the old chap 'd cast them from him with a scowl of scorn as much as to say you this and you that, and if he didn't peg the |4tea plateau4| in her face, believe me, she was safe enough. And then she'd try to |4fistle a tune vistule a hymn4|, The Heart Bowed Down or The Rakes of Mallow. What harm if she knew how to cock her mouth! And not a mag out of |4him Hum4| no more than out of the
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mangle weight. Is that a |4fact faith4|? That's a fact. And |4cheeping brahming4| to him down the feedchute, with all kinds of fondling endings, the poother rambling off her nose: Vuggybarney, Wickerymandy! Hello, ducky, please don't die! Do you know what she started |4singing cheeping4| then, the voice of her like a water gluck? You'll never guess. Tell me. Tell me. Phoebe, dearest, tell, O tell me and I loved you better nor you knew. And letting on she was daft about the old warbly sangs from over holmen, High hellskirt saw ladies hensmoker lilyhung pigger, and himself below as deaf as a yawn. Go away! You're only jeering! Anna Liv? As God is my judge! And didn't she up and rise and go and trot down and stand in the door, puffing her old dudheen, and every country wench or farmerette walking the roads usedn't she make her a sign to slip inside by the |4sallypost sullyport4|? You don't say the |4sallyport sillypost4|? I did. I do. Calling them in one by one and legging a jig or two to show them how to shake their benders and the dainty how to bring to mind the gladdest garments out of sight and all the way of a maid with a man and making a sort of a cackling noise like two and a penny or half a crown and holding up a silver shiner. Lordy, lordy, did she so? Well, of all the ones ever I heard! Throwing all the girls of the world at him! To any lass you like of no matter what sex of playful ways two and a tanner a girl a go to hug and have fun in Humpy's |4lap apron4|!

And what about the rhyme she made? O that! Tell me that while I'm lathering hell out of Denis Florence MacCarthy's combies. I'm dying down off my |4iodine4| feet until I hear Anna Livia's rhyme! I can see that. I see you are. How does it go? Listen now. Are you listening? Yes, yes! Indeed I am! Listen now. Listen in:

By earth and heaven but I badly want a brandnew backside, bedad and I do, and a plumper at that!
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For the putty affair I have is wore out, so it is, sitting, yawning and waiting for my old Dane the dodderer, my life in death companion, my frugal key of our larder, my much altered camel's hump, my jointspoiler, my maymoon's honey, my fool to the last Decemberer, to wake himself out of his winter's doze and shout me down like he used to.

Is there a lord of the manor or a knight of the shire at all, I wonder, that'd tip me a pound or two in cash for washing and darning his worshipful socks for him now we're run out of horsemeat and milk?

Only for my |4featherbed short Brittas bed4| is as snug as it smells it's out I'd lep and off with me to the slobs of the Tolka or the |4Bull of strand of4| Clontarf to hear the gay air of my salt |4Dublin troublin4| bay and the race of the |4seawind up my hole saywint up me ambushore4|.

O go on! Tell me more. Tell me every tiny bit. I want to know every single thing. Well, now comes the hatchery part. How many aleveens had she at all? I can't rightly tell you that. God only knows. Some say she had a hundred and eleven. She can't remember half of the cradlenames she smacked on them by the grace of her boxing bishop's infallible slipper. A hundred and how? They did well to |4christen rechristen4| her Plurabelle. O laws! What a flock! She must have been a gadabout in her day, so she must, more than most. So she was, you bet! She had a flewmen of her owen. Tell me, tell me, how |4did she come did she cam4| through all her fellows, the daredevil? |4Linking one and knocking the next and falling in and falling out |aand clyding by on her |bowen dale eastwayb|a|.4| Who was the first that ever burst? Someone it was, whoever you are. Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, Paul Pry or polishman. That's the thing I always want to know. She can't put her hand on him for the moment. It's a long long way, walking weary! Such a long way backwards to go! She says herself she hardly knows who her graveller was or what he did or how young she was or when and where and how often he crossed her. She was just a young thin pale soft shy slim slip of a thing then, sauntering, and he was a heavy trudging lurching lieabroad of a Curraghman, making his hay for the sun to shine on, as tough as the oaktrees used to rustle that time down by the dykes of killing Kildare, that |4first fell forstfellfoss4| with a plash across her. She thought she'd sink under the ground with shame! You're wrong there, |4all rotten4| wrong! It was ages |4long before that behind that when nullahs were nowhere,4| in county
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Wicklow, the garden of Erin, before she ever dreamt she'd leave Kilbride and go |4roaring fuming4| under Horsepass bridge to end her days|4, rebecca or worse,4| in the barleyfields and pennylands of Humphrey's fordofhurdlestown and lie with a landleaper, |4well on the wane byandby on the wane4|. Was it? Was it? Are you sure? Where in Wicklow? |4Was it |anorth or south north by southa| or Lucan |aJohn Yokena| or where the hand of man has never set foot?4| Tell me where, the very first time! I will if you listen. You know the |4hazel dingley4| dell of Luggelaw? Well, there once dwelt a local hermit, Michael Arklow was his name, and one day in burning June so sweet and so fresh and so limber she looked, the kind of curves you simply can't stop feeling, he plunged both of his blessed anointed hands up to his wrists in the singing saffron streams of her hair, parting them and soothing her and mingling it, that was deepred and ample like the brown bog at sundown. And he couldn't help himself, thirst was too hot for him, he had to forget the monk in the man, so, rubbing her up and smoothing her down, he cooled his lips in smiling mood, kiss after kiss (as he warned her never to, never to, never), on Anna Livia's
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freckled forehead. O, wasn't he the bold priest? And wasn't she the naughty Livvy? |4Naughtynaughty is Naughty Naama is4| her name. Two lads in their breeches went through her before that, Barefoot Byrne and Billy Wade, |4Lugnaquilla's Lugnaquillia's4| noble pair, before she had a hint of a hair |4there at her fanny4| to hide and ere that again she was licked by a hound while |4doing poing4| her pee, sweet and simple, |4on down4| the slope of a hill in old Kippure, in birdsong and shearingtime, but first of all, worst of all, she sideslipped out by a gap in the Devil's Glen while Sally her nurse was sound asleep in a sloot and fell over a spillway before she found her stride and lay and wriggled in all the stagnant black pools of rain under a fallow cow, laughing free with her limbs aloft and a whole drove of maiden hawthorns blushing and looking askance upon her.

|4Tell Drop4| me the sound of the shorthorn's name. And |4tell drip4| me why |4in4| the something was she freckled. And |4tell |ariddle tricklea|4| me too how long was her hair or was it |4only mostly4| a wig she wore. Are you in this game or are you not? O go on, go on, go on! I mean about what you know. I know right well what you mean. What am I rinsing now and I'll thank you? Is it a pinny or is it a surplice? Arrah, where's your nose? And where's the starch? That's not the benediction smell. I can tell from here by |4the their4| eau de |4Cologne Niels4| and the scent of her moisture they're Mrs Magrath's. And you ought to have aired them. They've just come off her. Creases of silk they are, not crimps of lawn.
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The only pair with frills in |4all the land old the plain4|. So they are. Well, well! And there's her |4maiden nubilee4| letters too. Ell and a quay in scarlet thread. And an ex after to show they're not Laura |4Kelly's Kehoe's4|. O, may the devil twist your safety pin! Now, who has been tearing the leg of her drawers on her? Which leg is it? The one with the bells on it. Rinse them out and run along with you! Where did I stop? Never stop. Continuation! You're not there yet. Go on, go on!

Well, after it was put in the Beggar's Monday Journal even the snow that fell on his hoaring hair had a skunner against him. Everywhere ever you went and every bung you ever dropped into or wherever you scoured the countryside you found his picture upside down or the cornerboys burning his guy and Pat the Man reeling and rolling around the local with oddfellow's triple tiara busby rotundarinking round his scalp. So she said to herself she'd |4make fray4| a plan to |4make fake4| a shine, the mischiefmaker, the like of it you never heard. What plan? Tell me quickly. What the mischief did she |4do make4|? Well, she borrowed a bag, a |4shammy4| mailbag, off one of her |4sons swapsons4|, Shaun the Post, and then she went and made herself up. O God of
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gigglers, I can't tell you how! It's too screaming funny, rabbit it all! O, but you must, you must really! By the holy well of Mulhuddart I swear I'd give my chance of going to heaven to hear it all, every word. O, leave me my faculties, woman, a while! If you don't like my story get out of the boat. Well, have it your own way so. Here, sit down and do as you're bid. Go easy and keep quiet. Tell me |4slow longsome4|. Take your time now. Breathe deep. That's the way. Hurry |4up and slow slow and scheldt4| you go. Give us your |4holy blessed4| ashes here till I scrub the canon's underpants. |4Slow Flow4| now. |4Slower still. Ower more.4|

First she let her hair fall and down it |4flowed flussed4| to her feet. Then, mothernaked, she washed herself with bogwater and mudsoap, upper and lower, from crown to sole. Next she greased the groove of her keel with antifouling butterscotch and with leafmould she multiplied |4a thousand prunella4| isles and islets dun allover her little mary. And after that she wove a garland for her hair. She pleated it. She plaited it. Of meadowgrass and riverflags, the bulrush and waterweed, and of fallen leaves of weeping willow. Then she made her bracelets and her anklets and her armlets and a jetty amulet for necklace of clicking cobbles and pattering pebbles and rumbledown rubble, rich gems and rare, of Irish rhinestones and shellmarble bangles. That done, |4a dawk of smut to her airy eyeº, and4| she sent her boudoir maid to His Affluence with respects from his missus, seepy and sewery, and a request she might leave him for a |4moment minnikin4|. She said she wouldn't be |4any half her4| length away. Then, then, with her mealiebag slung over her shoulder, Anna Livia, oysterface, out at last she came.

Describe her! Bustle along, why can't you? Spit on the iron while it's hot. I wouldn't miss her for the world. I must, I absolute must hear that! What had she on, the little old oddity? How much did she carry harness and weights? Here she is, Amnisty Ann! Call her calamity electrifies man.

No electress at all. I'll tell you now. But you must sit still. Will you hold your peace and listen well to what I am going to say now? It might have been ten or twenty to one when the door of her |4ugly hoogly4| igloo opened and out stepped a fairy woman, the dearest little mother ever you saw, nodding around her, all smiles, between two ages, a judy queen |4the height of your knee not up to your
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4|. And look at her sharp and seize her quick for the longer she lives the shorter she grows. |4Go away! Save us and tagus!4| No more? Why where did you ever see a |4lambloin Lambay4| chop as big as a battering ram? Ay, you're right. I was forgetting. The height of |4your knee my hough4|, I say! She wore a ploughboy's nailstudded clogs, a pair of ploughfields in themselves: a sugarloaf hat with a sunrise peak and a band of gorse and a hundred streamers dancing off it and a golden pin to pierce it: owlglassy bicycles boggled her eyes: and a fishnet veil she had to keep the sun from spoiling her wrinkles: potatorings buckled the loose ends of her ears: her nude cuba stockings were salmonspotspeckled: she sported a shimmy of hazegrey that once was blued till it ran in the washing: stout stays, the rivals, lined her length: her bloodorange knickers showed natural nigger boggers, fancyfastened, free to undo: her blackstripe tan joseph was teddybearlined, with wavy |4grassgreen rushgreen4| epaulettes and a border here and there of swansdown: a brace of gaspers stuck in her hayrope garters: her civvy coat was boundaried round with a twobar tunnel belt: she had a clothespeg tight astride of her nose and she kept on grinding something quaint in her mouth: and the tail of her snuffdrab shuiler's skirt trailed |4forty sixty4| Irish miles behind her on the road.

Hellsbells, I'm sorry I missed her! But in which of her mouths? Was her nose alight? Everyone that saw her said the douce little |4lady delia4| looked a bit queer. Funny poor frump she must have |4looked turned4|. Dickens a funnier ever you saw. |4And they crowned her the queen of the may. Of the may?4| Well for her she couldn't see herself.
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|4I warrant that's why she |amuddied murrayeda| her mirror. She did? Mersey me!4| There was a gang of drouthdropping surfacemen,
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boomslanging and plugchewing, lolling and leasing on Lazy Wall |4by the Royal George4| and as soon as they saw her |4trip meander4| by in |4profile her grasswinter's weeds4| and twigged who |4it was was in it was under her |adeaconessa| bonnet4|, |4Lucan's Avondale's4| fish and |4Dublin's Clarence's4| poison, says one to another: Between me and you and the granite we're warming, as round as a hoop, Alp has doped.

But what was the game in her mixed bag? I want to get it while it's fresh. I bet my beard it's worth while poaching on. Shake it up, do, do! I promise I'll make it worth your while. And I don't mean maybe. Tell me what and tell me true.

Well, around she pattered and swung and sidled|4, dribbling her boulder through |amud and narrows ofa| mosses,4| not knowing which |4way to turn medway to strike it,º4| like Santa Claus at the call of the pale and puny, with a Christmas box apiece for each and every one of her childer. |4The rivulets ran to see.4| And they all about her, youths and maidens, |4rickets and riots,4| chipping her and raising a bit of a jeer or cheer every time she'd dip in her sack of rubbish she robbed and reach out her maundy merchandise, stinkers and heelers, laggards and primeboys, all her natural sons and daughters, a thousand and one of them, and something for each of them. A tinker's tan and a |4bucket barrow4| to boil his billy for Gipsy Lee: a cartridge of cockaleekie soup for Tommy the Soldier:
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for sulky Pender's acid nephew deltoid drops, curiously strong: a cough and a rattle and wildrose cheeks for poor little Petite O'Hara: a jigsaw puzzle of needles and pins and blankets and shins between them for Isabel and Llewelyn Marriage: a brazen nose and pigiron mittens for Johnny Walker Beg: the papal flag of the saints and stripes for Kevineen O'Dea: a puffpuff for Pudge Craig and a nightmarching hare for Toucher Doyle: waterleg and gumboots each for Bully Hayes and Hurricane Hartigan: a prodigal heart and fatted calves for Buck Jones, the pride of Clonliffe: a loaf of bread and a father's early kick for Tim from Skibereen: a jauntingcar for Larry Doolin, the Ballyclee jackeen: a seasick trip on a government ship for Peat O'Flanagan: a louse and trap for Jerry Coyle: |4mudmincepies slushmincepies4| for Andy Mackenzie: a hairclip and clackdish for Penceless Peter: a spellingbee book for Rosy Brooke: a drowned doll for Sister Anne: |4a snake in clover |aand a vaticanned vipercatcher'sº visaa| for Patsy Presbys:4| scruboak beads for |4holy beatified4| Biddy: |4an applewood stool an appletreed stool4| for Eva Thornstone: for Sara Philpot a jordan |4valley vale4| tearjar: a pretty box of Pettyfib's Powder for Eileen Alannah to whiten her teeth |4and outsmile Ellen Arhone4|: a whipping top for Eddy Lawless: for Kitty Coleraine of Buttermilk Lane a penny wise for her foolish pitcher: a putty shovel for Larry the Puckaun: a potamus mask for Promoter Dunne: a dynamite egg for Paul the Curate:
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a pile with a |4Congoswood4| cross on the back for Sunny Jim: |4for Camilla, Dromilla, Ludmilla, Mamilla, a bucket, a packet, a book and a pillow:4| for Nancy Shannon a Tuam brooch: for Dora Hopeandwater a cooling douche and a warmingpan: a pair of Blarney breeks for Wally Meagher: a hairpin slatepencil for Elsie Oram to scratch her toby, doing her best with her volgar fractions: an old age pension for Betty the Beauty: a bag of the blues for Funny Fitz: Jill, the spoon of a girl, for Jack, the broth of a boy: a Robinson Crusoe Friday fast for |4Patrick Angelus Rubinstein Caducus Angelus Rubiconstein4|: three hundred and sixtysix poplin ties for every |4day warp4| in the |4annual weaver's4| year for Victor Hugonot: a rake and good
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muck for Kate the Cleaner: a hole in the ballad for Hosty: two dozen of cradles for J. F. X. P. Coppinger: a letter to last a lifetime for Maggy beyond by the ashpit: the |4heaviest deaf and dumb heftiest frozenmeat4| woman from Lusk to Livienbad for Felim the Ferry: spas and speranza for Gouty Gough: |4a change of |anames navesa| and |aa choice joysa| of ills for Armoricus Tristram |a|bGrillroom Amoorb|a| Saint |aLarynx Lawrencea|:4| a sunless map of the |4world month,º4| including the |4moon sword4| and |4stamp stamps4| for |4Shaun Shemus O'Shaun4| the Post: |4a jackal and with hide for Browne but Nolan:4| a stonecold shoulder for Donn Joe Vance: a lock and a stable for Honorbright Meretrix: a big drum for Billy Dunboyne: whatever you like to take to drink|4,
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Yuinness or Yennessy, Lagen or Niger,
4| for Festus King and Roaring Peter and Frisky Shorty and Treacle Tom and |4Maurice O. B.4| Behan and Sully the Thug and Master Magrath and Peter Cloran and whoever you chance to meet knocking around: and a bladder balloon for Selina Susquehana Stakelum. But what did she give to Pruda Ward and Peggy Quilty and Nora Brosna and Teasy Kieran and Ena Lappin and Una and Bina and Trina Kane and Philomena O'Farrell |4and |aIrma Kelly Irmak Ellya|4| and Josephine Foyle and Lily and Laura and Mary Xavier Agnes Daisy Francis de Sales MacCabe? She gave them every mother's daughter a moonflower and a |4bloodstone bloodleaf4|. |4And to So on4| Izzy, her |4youngest shamemaid4|, |4a vision of love beyond her years love shone befond her tears4| |4and to so as from4| Shem, her |4eldest penmight4|, |4life before his time life past befoul his prime4|.

My colonial, what a bagful! That's what you may call a tale of a tub. |4All that and more under one crinoline envelope if you dare to break the seal.4| No wonder they'd run from her like the plague. Throw us |4the your hudson4| soap for the honour of |4God. Clane!º4| The wee bit the water left. You've all the swirls your side of the current. Well, am I to blame for that if I have? Who said you're to blame for that if you have? My hands are as blue between cold and soda as that piece of pattern chayney there, lying below. Or where is it? Lying beside the reeds I saw it. |4Hoangho, my sorrow, I've lost it!4| With that peaty water who could see? But O, go on. I love a gabber. I could listen to |4more and more more and mauve4| again. |4Rain on the Rain onder4| river. Flies |4to do4| your float. |4This Thick4| is the life for |4me mere4|.

Well, you know or don't you know or haven't I told you every story has an end. Look, look, the dusk is growing. What time is it? It must be late. It's ages now since I or anyone last saw Waterhouse's clock. They took it asunder, I heard them say. When will they reassemble it? O, my back, my back, my back! Wring out the clothes! Wring in the dew! Will we spread them here now? Ay, we will. Spread on your bank and I'll spread mine on mine. It's what I'm doing. Spread! It's turning chill. A wind is rising. I'll lay a few stones on the hotel sheets. A man and his bride embraced between them. Else I'd have sprinkled and folded them only. And I'll tie my butcher's apron here. It's suety yet. The strollers will pass it by. Six shifts, ten kerchiefs, the convent napkins, twelve, one baby's shawl. Where are all her childer now? Some here, more no more, more again lost to the stranger. I've heard tell that same brooch of the Shannons was married into a family in Spain. And all the Dunnes beyond Brendan's sea takes number nine in hats. And one of Biddy's
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beads went bobbing lonesome till she rounded up last Friday week with a marigold and a cobbler's candle in a main drain off Bachelor's Walk. But all that's left to the last of the Meaghers is
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one kneebuckle and two hooks in the front. Do you tell me that now? I do, in troth. |4Oronoko! What's the trouble?4| Is that the great Dunboyne himself on his statue riding his high horse there forenenst you? There? Is it that? On Fallareen Common? Throw the cobwebs from your eyes, woman, and spread your washing proper. It's well I know your sort of slop. Were you lifting your elbow, tell us, glazy cheeks, in the Carrigacurra canteen? Was I what, hobbledehips? Amn't I up since the damp dawn with varicose veins, soaking and bleaching boiler rags, and sweating cold, a widow like me, to deck my tennis champion son, the laundryman with the lavender flannels? Holy Saint Wolstan, I saw it again! Near the golden falls. There! Subdue your noise, you poor creature! What is it but a blackberry growth or the grey mare ass them four old codgers owns. Are you meaning Tarpey and Lyons and Gregory? I mean |4now4| |4those four codgers the four of them, and the roar of them,º4| that owns that stray in the mist and old Johnny MacDougal along with
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them. Is that the Poolbeg flasher |4beyond beyant4| or the mast of a coaster |4near nigh4| the Kish or a glow I behold within a hedge? Wait till the rising of the moon. My |4sight is getting sights are swimming4| thicker on me |4with by4| the shadows |4in to4| this place. I'll |4go so4| home slowly now |4my by4| own way, |4the valley my valley4| way. |4So will Too will4| I too, |4by mine my mine4|.

Ah, but she was the queer old skeowsha anyhow, Anna Livia, twinkletoes! And sure he was the queer old buntz too, Dear Dirty Dumpling, foostherfather of |4all of us fingalls and fotthergills4|! Gammer and gaffer, we're all their gangsters. Hadn't he seven dams to wive him? And every dam had her seven
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crutches. And every crutch had its seven hues. And each hue had a |4different differing4| cry. Suds for me and supper for you and the doctor's bill for Joe John. Before! Before! He married his markets, cheap by foul, I know, but at milkingmass who was the spouse? Then all that was was fair. |4In Elvenland!º4| Teems of times and happy returns. The same anew. |4Anna was, Livia is, Plurabelle's to be. Northmen's thing made southfolk's place but howmulty creators made eachone a in person? Latin me that, my trinity scholard. Hircus Civis Eblanensis!4| He had buckgoat paps on him, soft ones for orphans. Ho, Lord! Twins of his bosom. Lord save us! And ho! Hey? What all men. Hot? His tittering daughters of. Whawk?

Can't hear with the waters of. The chittering waters of. Flittering bats, fieldmice bawk talk. Ho! Are you not gone ahome? What Tom Malone? Can't hear with bawk of bats, all the liffeying waters of. Ho, talk save us! My foos woon't moos. I feel as old as yonder elm. A tale told of Shaun or Shem? All Livia's daughtersons. Dark hawks hear us! Night! Night! My ho head halls. I feel
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as heavy as yonder stone. Tell me of John or Shaun? Who were Shem and Shaun the living sons or daughters of? Night now! Tell me, tell me, tell me, elm! Nighty night! Tell me tale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of, hitherandthithering waters of. Night!