Le Navire d'argent

3rd typescript, June 1925, I.8 draft level 5, 5'

MS British Library 47474 142-159; 169-184 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 |5'phut futt5'| 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 mouldaw stains. And the dneepers of wet and the gangres 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, illysus distilling and all. 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 (5'got some dug good5') tin with (5'her his doll 5') 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. Like fun they did but where was Himself? |5The That5| merchantman he follied their scutties right over the wash, his cameleer's burnous breezing up on him, till with his runagate bowmpriss he rode and |5broke |aunreaded borsta|5| her bar. |5'Paleiliou! |aPwllhillyou! Pwllhyllyou!a|5'| Och, I'm kilt! Tune
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your pipes and fall ahumming, you born |5'idiot, ijit ijypt,5'| and you're nothing short of one! When they saw him shoot |5by swift5| up her sheba sheath, like any gay lord salomon, her bulls they were roaring, surfed with spree. Nooknoorum nyroo! Nooknoorum nyroo! He erned his lille Bunbath hard, our staly bred, the trader. He did. Look at here. In this wet of his prow. Didn't you know he was a bairn of the sea, Waterhouse the waterbaby? O, I know, so he was. H.C.E. has a |5'cockly briny5'| ee. Sure, she's nearly as bad as him herself. Who? Anna Livia? Ay, Anna Livia! Do you know she was calling backwater girls from all around to go in till him, her erring man, and tickle |5him the pontiff5| easy? She was? |5Go to God Go to pot5|! O, tell me all I want to hear. Letting on she didn't care, the proxenete! Proxenete and |5'what is that phwhat is phthat5'|? |5Were you never Did they never otter you ebro5| at |5'school skol 5'|? It's just the same as if I was to go for example now and proxenete you. For |5God' Cox'5| sake and is
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that what she is? Didn't you spot her in her windeye, |5standing wubbling5| up on |5a rickety a reedy5| chair, pretending to |5'ripple ribble5'| a |5'wave or two reedy derg5'| on a fiddle she |5'has bows5'| without a bottom? Sure she can't |5fiddlededee fiddan a dee5|, |5top bow5| or bottom! |5Of course Srueº5|, she can't! |5'All a blind Just a suck5'|. 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, where he'd check their
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debts in that mormon's thames, 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 sight of the sternes. You'd think all was dead belonging to him. He had been belching for |5over a year severn years5|. And there she was, Anna Livia, she |5'couldn't snatch a wink darent catch a winkle5'| of sleep, purling around like a chit of a child, in a Lapsummer skirt and painted cheeks. And an odd time she'd cook him up blooms of fisk and lay to his heartsfoot her meddery eygs and staynish beacons on toasc and |5'a cupenhave of greenland'sº tay andº5'| a shinking bread for to plaise that man hog stay his stomicker till her knees were worn to nutmeg graters, and as rash as she'd rush with |5them her peakload of vivers5| up on her tray |5'the old chap 'd cast my bold Hek he'd kast5'| them from him with a |5'scowl stour5'| of scorn as much as to say you this and you that, and if he didn't peg the plateau in her face, believe me, she was safe enough. And then she'd try to vistule a hymn, The Heart Bowed Down or The Rakes of Mallow. What harm if she knew how to |5'cock cockle5'| her mouth! And not a mag out of Hum no more than out of the
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mangle weight. Is that a faith? That's a fact. And brahming 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 cheeping 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 |5'God Chalkº5'| 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 |5'pilend5'| roads usedn't she make her a sign to slip inside by the sullyport? You don't say the sillypost? |5'I did. I do. I did and I do.5'| 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 apron!

And what |5'about the was the wyeryeº5'| 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 iodine feet until I hear Anna Livia's |5'rhyme cushingloo 5'|! 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 |5'backside, bankside,º5'| (5'bedad bedamp5') 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, |5'yawning yaping5'| 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 short Brittas bed is as snug as it smells it's out I'd lep and off with me to the slobs of the Tolka or the |5'strand of shores of5'| Clontarf to hear the gay air of my salt troublin bay and the race of the saywint up me ambushore.

O go on! Tell me more. Tell me every tiny bit. I want to know every single thing. Well, now comes the |5'hatchery hazelhatchery5'| part. How many aleveens had she |5'at all in all5'|? I can't rightly tell you that. |5'God Close5'| 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 rechristen her Plurabelle. O |5'laws loreley5'|! What a |5'flock lots5'|! She must have been a gadabout in her day, so she must, more than most. |5'So Shoal5'| she was, you bet! She had a flewmen of her owen. Tell me, tell me, how |5'did she cam could she cam5'| through all her fellows, the daredevil? Linking one and knocking the next and falling in and falling out and clyding by on her eastway. 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 |5go row5|! She says herself she hardly knows who her graveller was or what he did or how young she |5was played5| or when and where and how often he |5'crossed jumped5'| 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 |5'(peats be with them!)5'| used to rustle that time down by the dykes of killing Kildare, that forstfellfoss with a plash across her. She thought she'd sink under the ground with shame! You're wrong there, |5'rotten corriby5'| wrong! It was ages behind that when nullahs were nowhere, in county
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|5'Wicklow, the Wickenlow,5'| garden of Erin, before she ever dreamt she'd leave Kilbride and go fuming under Horsepass bridge to |5'end her days wend her ways byandby5'|, rebecca or worse, in the barleyfields and pennylands of Humphrey's fordofhurdlestown and lie with a landleaper, |5'byandby on the wane wellingtonorseher5'|. |5'Was it? Was it? Wasut? Izod? Are you sure Arne Are you suirº5'|? |5Where in Wicklow? Whereabouts in Ow and Ovoca?5| Was it north by south or Lucan |5Yoken Yokan5| or where the hand of man has never set foot? Tell me where, the very first time! I will if you listen. You know the dingley dell of Luggelaw? Well, there once dwelt a local |5hermit heremite5|, Michael Arklow was his name |5(with many a sigh I aspersed his lavabibs!)5|, and one |5'day |avenusderg venersderga|5'| in |5'burning June junojuly,º5'| 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, |5'thirst was too hot for him thurst was too hot on him5'|, 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? Naughty Naama is her name. Two lads in their breeches went through her before that, Barefoot Byrne and |5'Billy Willy5'| Wade, Lugnaquillia's noble pair, before she had a hint of a hair at her fanny to hide and ere that again she was licked by a hound while poing her pee, sweet and simple, down 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 |5'cow, laughing free cow andº she laughed innocefree5'| with her limbs aloft and a whole drove of maiden hawthorns blushing and looking askance upon her.

Drop me the sound of the shorthorn's name. And drip me why in the something was she freckled. And trickle me |5'too through how long was her hair was she marcelwaved5'| or was it |5'mostly weirdly5'| a wig she wore. Are you in |5'this game the swim5'| or are you |5'not out5'|? 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? |5'Arrah Arran5'|, where's your nose? And where's the starch? That's not the benediction smell. I can tell from here by their eau de Niels 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 |5'of in5'| silk they are, not |5'crimps of crampton5'| lawn.
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The only pair with frills in old the plain. So they are. Well, well! And there's her nubilee letters too. |5'Ell and a Ellis on5'| quay in scarlet thread. And an ex after to show they're not Laura Kehoe's. |5'O, may Ormondº5'| 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 |5'run aston5'| along with you! Where did I stop? Never stop. |5'Continuation Continuarration5'|! You're not there yet. |5'Go on, go on! Garonne, garonne!5'|

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 |5'from Nannywater to Vartryville5'| you found his |5'picture pixture5'| 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. |5'She swore she'dº be level with all of them yet.5'| So she said to herself she'd |5'fray frame5'| a plan to fake a shine, the mischiefmaker, the like of it you never heard. What plan? Tell me quickly. What the mischief did she make? Well, she |5'borrowed bergened5'| a bag, a shammy mailbag, off one of her swapsons, Shaun the Post, and then she went and made herself up. O |5'God goggleº5'| 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 |5'boat punt5'|. Well, have it your own way so. Here, sit down and do as you're bid. |5'Go easy and keep quiet Lisp it slaney and crisp it quiet5'|. Tell me longsome. Take your time now. Breathe deep. That's the |5'way fairway5'|. Hurry slow and scheldt you go. Give us your blessed ashes here till I scrub the canon's underpants. Flow now. Ower more.

First she let her hair fall and down it flussed 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 |5'multiplied ushered out round5'| prunella 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, |5'rich gems richmond5'| and rare, of Irish rhinestones and shellmarble bangles. That done, a dawk of smut to her airy eye, and she sent her |5'boudoir boudeloire5'| maid to His Affluence with |5'respects respecks5'| from his missus, seepy and sewery, and a request she might leave him for a minnikin. She said she wouldn't be half her 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? |5'Spit on the iron Spitz on the iern5'| while it's hot. I wouldn't miss her for the world. |5'I must, I absolute must |~I must, I absolute mussel I mussel, I absolute must~|5'| hear that! What had she on, the little old oddity? How much did she |5'carry scallop,5'| harness and weights? Here she is, Amnisty Ann! Call her calamity electrifies man.

No electress at all |5'but old Moppa Necessity, mother of injins5'|. 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 |5'door flip5'| of her hoogly igloo |5'opened fluttered5'| and out stepped a fairy woman, the dearest little mother ever you saw, nodding around her, all smiles, between two ages, a judy queen not up to your
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elb. And look at her sharp and seize her quick for the longer she lives the shorter she grows. Save us and tagus! No more? Why where did you ever see a Lambay chop as big as a battering ram? Ay, you're right. I was forgetting. The height of my hough, I say! She wore a ploughboy's nailstudded clogs, a pair of ploughfields in themselves: a sugarloaf hat with a |5'sunrise gaudyquivery5'| 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 rushgreen epaulettes and a |5'border leadown5'| here and there of |5'swansdown royal swansruff5'|: 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 sixty Irish miles behind her on the road.

Hellsbells, I'm sorry I missed her! |5Sweet umptyum and nobody fainted.5| But in |5'which whelk5'| of her mouths? Was her |5'nose naze5'| alight? Everyone that saw her said the douce little delia looked a bit queer. |5'Lotsy trotsy, mind the poddle!5'| Funny poor frump she must have |5'turned charred5'|. |5'Dickens Kickhams5'| a funnier ever you saw. |5Making soft mullet's eyes at her boys dobelong.º5| And they crowned her the queen of the may. Of the may? |5You don't say!5| Well for her she couldn't see herself.
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I warrant that's why she murrayed her mirror. She did? Mersey me! There was a gang of drouthdropping surfacemen,
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boomslanging and plugchewing, lolling and leasing on Lazy Wall by the |5'Royal George Jook of Yoick's5'| and as soon as they saw her meander by in her grasswinter's weeds and twigged who was under her deaconess bonnet, Avondale's fish and Clarence's 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. |5'Tell me what and tell me Tell me more but tell me5'| true.

Well, |5'around arondgirond5'| she pattered and swung and sidled, dribbling her boulder through narrows of mosses, not knowing which medway to strike it, like Santa Claus at the call of the pale and puny, with a Christmas box apiece for each and every one of her childer. The rivulets ran to see|5, the glashaboys, the pollynooties5|. And they all about her, youths and maidens, rickets and riots, chipping her and raising a bit of a jeer or cheer every time she'd dip in her |5culdee5| sack of rubbish she robbed and reach out her maundy merchandise, stinkers and heelers, laggards and primeboys, |5all her natural her furzeborn5| sons and |5dribbledary5| daughters, a thousand and one of them, and |5'something wickerpotluck5'| for each of them. A tinker's |5'tan bann5'| and a barrow 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 |5'O'Hara MacFarlane5'|: 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: (+5the a+)5| 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: slushmincepies for Andy Mackenzie: a hairclip and clackdish for Penceless Peter: a spellingbee book for Rosy Brooke: a drowned doll for Sister Anne |5'Mortimer5'|: a snake in clover and a vaticanned vipercatcher's visa for Patsy Presbys: scruboak beads for beatified Biddy: |5'an appletreed stool two appletweed stools5'| for Eva |5'Thornstone Mobbely5'|: for Sara Philpot a jordan vale tearjar: a pretty box of Pettyfib's Powder for Eileen Alannah to whiten her teeth and |5outsmile outflash5| Ellen Arhone: 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 |5'tibertine'sº5'| pile with a Congoswood cross on the back for Sunny Jim: for Camilla, Dromilla, Ludmilla, Mamilla, a bucket, a packet, a book and a pillow: 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 |5'Robinson Rogerson5'| Crusoe Friday fast for Caducus Angelus Rubiconstein: three hundred and sixtysix poplin |5'ties tyne5'| for |5'every revery5'| warp in the weaver's |5year woof5| 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 heftiest frozenmeat woman from Lusk to Livienbad for Felim the Ferry: spas and speranza for Gouty Gough: a change of naves and joys of ills for Armoricus Tristram Amoor Saint Lawrence: |5a C3 peduncle for Karmalite Kane:5| a sunless map of the month, including the sword and stamps for Shemus O'Shaun the Post: a jackal with hide for Browne but Nolan: a stonecold shoulder for Donn Joe Vance: |5'a lock and a all lock and no5'| stable for Honorbright Meretrix: a big drum for Billy Dunboyne: whatever you like to |5take swilly5| to drink,
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Yuinness or Yennessy, Lagen or Niger, for Festus King and Roaring Peter and Frisky Shorty and Treacle Tom and O. B. 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 |5'and Flora Ferns and Fauna Fox-Goodman5'| and Una and Bina and Trina |5Kane La Mesme5| and Philomena O'Farrell and Irmak Elly and Josephine Foyle and |5'Snakeshead5'| Lily and |5'Fountainoy5'| Laura and Mary Xavier Agnes Daisy Francis de Sales MacCabe? She gave them every mother's daughter a moonflower and a bloodleaf. So on Izzy, her shamemaid, love shone befond her tears as from Shem, her penmight, life past befoul his prime.

My colonial, what a bagful! That's what you may call a tale of a tub. All that and more under one crinoline envelope if you dare to break the |5porkbarrel5| seal. No wonder they'd run from her like the plague. Throw us your hudson soap for the honour of Clane! The wee |5'bit taste5'| 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. Hoangho, my sorrow, I've lost it! With that peaty water who could see? But O, go on. I love a gabber. I could listen to more and mauve again. Rain onder river. Flies do your float. Thick is the life for mere.

Well, you know or don't you know or haven't I told you every story has an end |5and that's the he and the she of it5|. 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 |5'turning churning5'| chill. |5'A wind Der wend5'| 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 |5'Friday week histereve5'| 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. Oronoko! What's the trouble? Is that the great |5'Dunboyne Finnleader5'| himself |5'in his joakimonoº5'| on his statue riding |5'his the5'| high horse there |5'forenenst you forehengist5'|? 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, |5hobbledehips hobbledyhips5|? 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. |5'Icis on us!5'| There! Subdue your noise, you poor creature! What is it but a blackberry growth or the |5'grey mare dwyergray5'| ass them four old codgers owns. Are you |5'meaning maining5'| Tarpey and Lyons and Gregory? I mean now|5', thank all,5'| the four of them, and the roar of them, that owns that stray in the mist and old Johnny MacDougal along with
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them. Is that the Poolbeg flasher beyant or the mast of a coaster nigh the Kish or a glow I behold within a hedge? Wait till the rising of the moon. My sights are swimming thicker on me by the shadows to this place. I'll |5'so sow5'| home slowly now by own way, |5'my valley moyvalley5'| way. |5'Too will Row will5'| I too, |5'my mine rathmine5'|.

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 fingalls and fotthergills! 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 differing 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 |5milkingmass milkidmass5| who was the spouse? Then all that was was fair. In Elvenland! Teems of times and happy returns. The same anew. Anna was, Livia is, Plurabelle's to be. Northmen's thing made southfolk's place but howmulty |5creators plurators5| made eachone in person? Latin me that, my trinity scholard. Hircus Civis Eblanensis! 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!