Le Navire d'argent

Revised pages of Le Navire, September-October 1927, I.8 draft level 8, 8+

MS Yale 6.1 1, 61-74 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 futt 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 Fiendish 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 a tail at all on Animal Sunday? And how long was he under lough and neagh? It was put in the papers what he did, |8nicies and priers, the King fierceas Humphrey, with8| 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, the famous old duke alien, with a hump of grandeur on him like a walking rat! |8|aAnd his derry's own drawl and his corksown blather and his doubling stutter and his gullaway swank.a| Ask Lictor Hackett or Lector Reade orº Garda Growley or the Boy with the Billyclub.8| What age is he at all at all? |8Huges Caput Earlyfouler.º8| Or where was he born or how was he found |8and? Was her banns |aever nevera| loosened in Adam and Eve's and8| were him and her ever spliced? |8Flowey and Mount on the brink of time with wishes and fears for a happy isthmass. O, pass me that and oxus another!º |aDon Doma| Dombdomb and his wee follyo!8| I heard he dug good tin with his doll when he brought her home, Sabine asthore, in a perokeet's cage, |8by dredgerous lands and devious delts, playing catched and mythed with the gleam of her shadda,º8| the quaggy way for stumbling. Who sold you that jackalantern's tale? In a gabbard he landed, the boat of life, |8from the harbourless Ivernikan Okean,8| 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? That marchantman he follied their scutties right over the wash, his cameleer's burnous breezing up on him, till with his runagate bowmpriss he rode and borst her bar. Pwllhyllyou! Och, I'm kilt! |8And the whale's away with the grayling!8| Tune
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your pipes and fall ahumming, you born ijypt, and you're nothing short of one! |8Well, |aptelleme soom ptellomyº soona| and curb your froth.8| When they saw him shoot swift 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, Waterbourne the waterbaby? O, I know, so he was. H.C.E. has a briny 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 the pontiff easy? She was? Go to pot! O, tell me all I want to hear. Letting on she didn't care, the proxenete! Proxenete and phwhat is phthat? |8Tell us in franca langua.8| Did they never otter you ebro at skol? It's just the same as if I was to go for example now |8out of telekinesis8| and proxenete you. For Cox' sake and is
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that what she is? |8|aI little Little Ia| thought she'd |afall acta| that low.8| Didn't you spot her in her windeye, wubbling up on an osiery chair, |8with a music before her all cunniform letters,8| pretending to ribble a reedy derg on a fiddle she bows without a bottom? Sure she can't fiddan a dee, bow or bottom! Srue, she can't! Just a suck. Well, I never heard the like of that! Tell me more. Tell me most.

Well, old Humber was as glum as a grampus, setting moping on his benk, where he'd check their
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debths 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 |8|aafterº |bswarthy zwarthyb| kowse and weedy broeks and the tits of buddy and the loits of pest anda| to peer was Parish worth the mess8|. You'd think all was dead belonging to him. He had been belching for severn years. And there she was, Anna Livia, she darent catch a winkle of sleep, purling around like a chit of a child, in a Lapsummer skirt and damazon cheeks |8forº to wish |abonjour bonzoura| to her dear dubberº Dan8|. 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 a cupenhave |8so weeshwaashyº8| of greenland's tay |8or his ale of ferns in trueartpewterº8| and a shinking bread for to plaise that man hog stay his stomicker till her pyrraknees shrunk to nutmeg graters, and as rash as she'd rush with her peakload of vivers up on her tray |8(his towering rage see how it rises!)8| my bold Hek he'd kast them from him with a stour of scorn as much as to say you this and you that, and if he didn't peg the plateau in her face, believe |8you8| me, she was safe enough. And then she'd try to vistule a hymn, The Heart Bowed Down or The Rakes of Mallow. |8Such fuffing and fifeing! She'd bate the hen that crowed on the |atower of Babel turrace of Babbela|.8| What harm if she knew how to cockle 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. |8Then doing the |agrand ricka |band queen of queens, |cAnnona, gebroren Nivia,c| her frostified tresses lit with firefliesb|a| in a period gown of changeable jade that would clothe the wood of two cardinals' chairs and crush poor Cullen and smother MacCabe.8| 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 watergluck? 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 Oom Bothar below in his sandy cloak as deaf as a yawn. Go away! |8Poor deef old deeryº!8| You're only jeering! Anna Liv? As Chalk is my judge! And didn't she up and rise and go and trot down and stand in |8the door her douro8|, puffing her old dudheen, and every country wench or farmerette walking the pilend roads|8, Sowyº, Fundally, Daery or Maery, Milucre, Awny or Graw,8| usedn't she make her a sign to slip inside by the sullyport? You don't say the sillypost? I did. And I do. Calling them in one by one and legging a jig or so 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 |8captured8| lass you like of no matter what sex of playful ways two and a tanner a girl a go to hug and have |8fun |aheaven havena|8| in Humpy's apron!

And what was the wyerye 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 cushingloo! 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 |8heaven the cloudy8| but I badly want a brandnew bankside, bedamp 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, yaping 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 dip 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 |8is Iº made is8| as snug as it smells it's out I'd lep and off with me to the slobs of the Tolka or the shores of Clontarf to hear the gay air of my salt troublin bay and the race of the saywint up me ambushure.

O go on! Tell me more. Tell me every tiny bit. I want to know every single thing. Well, now comes the hazelhatchery part. How many aleveens had she in toll? I can't rightly tell you that. Close only knows. Some say she had |8a hundred and eleven three figures to fill and confined herself to a hundred eleven8|. 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 loreley! What a loads! She must have been a gadabout in her day, so she must, more than most. Shoal she was, you bet! She had a flewmen of her owen. Tell me, tell me, how could she cam through all her fellows, |8the neckar she was,8| the |8daredevil darrdevil8|? Linking one and knocking the next and palling in and petering out and clyding by on her eastway. Who was the first that ever burst? Someone |8it he8| was, whoever |8you are they were8|. Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, Paul Pry or polishman. That's the thing I always want to know. |8|aPush up, push upper! Push up and push upper andº come to headquatersº! |bWas it waterloos year, after Grattan or Flood, or when maids were in Arc or when there three stood hosting? Faith will find
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where the Doubt arises like Nemo from Nirgends found the Nihil. Worry you sighin foh, Albern, O Anser!? Untie the gemman's fistiknots, Qvic and Nuancee?!º
b|a|8| 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 row! She says herself she hardly knows who her graveller was or what he did or how young she played or when and where and how often he jumped 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 (peats be with them!) 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 when he gave her the tigris eye! You're wrong there, corribly wrong! It was ages behind that when nullahs were nowhere, in county
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Wickenlow, garden of Erin, before she ever dreamt she'd leave Kilbride and go fuming under Horsepass bridge to wend her ways byandby, rebecca or worse, in the barleyfields and pennylotts of Humphrey's fordofhurdlestown and lie with a landleaper, wellingtonorseher. Wasut? Izod? Are you suir? |8Not where the Finn fits into the Mourne, not where the Nore takes lieve of Bloemº, not where the Bray divarts the Farer, not where the Moy changes her mind between Cullin and Conn and Conn and Cullin? No, no, no and no!8| |8Whereabouts Then |awhere whereaboutsa|8| in Ow and Ovoca? Was it north by south or Lucan Yokan 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 heremite, Michael Arklow was his riverend name (with many a sigh I aspersed his lavabibs!), and one venersderg in junojuly, so sweet and so fresh and so limber she looked, |8Nance the Nixie, Nanon L'Escaut,8| in the silence, of the sycomores, all listening, 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 deepdark and ample like the red bog at sundown. And he cuddle not help himself, thurst was too hot on 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-na-Poghue'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 |8name navn8|. Two lads in their breeches went through her before that, Barefoot Byrne and Willy 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, pure and simple, on the spur of the hill in old Kippure, in birdsong and shearingtime, but first of all, worst of all, |8the wiggly livvly,8| 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 |8cow coo8| and she laughed innocefree 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 through was she marcelwaved or was it weirdly a wig she wore. |8And whitside did they droop their glows in their florry, aback to wist or affront to sea?8| Are you in the swim or are you out? 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? Arran, where's your nose? And where's the starch? That's not the benediction smell. I can tell from here by their eau de |8Niels Colo8| 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 in silk they are, not crampton lawn.
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|8Through her catchment ring she freed them easy, with her hips' hurrahs for her knees' dontelleriesº.8| The only pair with frills in old the plain. So they are. Well, well! And there's her nubilee letters too. Ellis on quay in scarlet thread. |8Linked for the world on a flushcoloured field.8| And an ex after to show they're not Laura Kehoe's. Ormond the devil |8twist twisk8| your safety pin! |8You child of Mammon, Kinsella's Lilith!8| 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 aston along with you! Where did I stop? Never stop. Continuarration! You're not there yet. Garonne, garonne!

Well, after it was put in the |8Beggar's Beggars'8| Monday Journal |8(and for once they sullied their white kid glovesº with their show us it hereº and give |atheir mind out of thatº anda| their when you're quite finished |awith the reading materiala|)º8| even the |8snow that fell on snee that snowdon8| his hoaring hair had a skunner against him. Everywhere ever you went and every bung you ever dropped into |8in cit or in sub or in added areas8| or wherever you scoured the countryside from Nannywater to Vartryville you found his pixture 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. |8Like Pate-by-the-Neva or Pete-over-Meer. This is the Hausman all paven and stoned, that |akept cribbeda| the Cabin that never was owned,º that cocked his leg and hennad his Egg. |aAnd
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the rabble around him in areopage,º making a great fracas with their crowdersº. Mind your Grimmfather! Think of your Ma!
a|8| She swore |8(+on croststyx+)8| she'd be level with all of them yet. So she said to herself she'd frame 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 bergened a bag, a shammy mailbag, off one of her swapsons, Shaun the Post, and then she went |8and consulted her chapbooks, old Moore, Casey's Euclid and the Fashion Display,º8| and made herself up. O goggle 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 |8give pawn8| my chance of |8going getting8| 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 punt. Well, have it your own way so. Here, sit down and do as you're bid. Lisp it slaney and crisp it quiet. Tell me longsome. Take your time now. Breathe deep. That's the fairway. 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 its teviots winding coils. 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 turfentine and serpenthyme, and with leafmould she ushered round 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 griefs 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, richmond and rare, of Irish rhinestones and shellmarble bangles. That done, a dawk of smut to her airy eye, and she sent her boudeloire |8maid maids8| to His Affluence|8, |aCherie Lagrande Ciliegia Grandea| and Kirschie |aRoyal Reala|,8| with respecks from his missus, seepy and sewery, and a request she might leave him for a minnikin. |8A call to payº |aand light a tapera|, in Brie-on-Arrose, back in a sprinkling.8| She said she wouldn't be half her length away. Then, then, |8|awhen as soon as the lumpa| his back was turned,º8| with her mealiebag slung over her shoulder, Anna Livia, oysterface, out at last she came.

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

No electress at all but old Moppa Necessity, mother of injins. 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 |8of the night of Allclose or the nexth of April8| when the flip of her hoogly igloo fluttered 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 |8quick quaint8| for the |8longer she lives the shorter bicker she lives the slicker8| she grows. Save us and tagus! No more? Why where did you ever pick a Lambay chop as big as a battering ram? Ay, you're right. |8I was I am8| forgetting|8, |asays likeºa| Liviam |aLittle to Liddle dida| Lovel Loveme Long8|. 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 gaudyquivery 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 |8sequansewn and8| teddybearlined, with wavy rushgreen epaulettes and a leadown here and there of royal swansruff: 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 |8joki's8| nose and she kept on grinding something quaint in her |8fiuming8| mouth: and the |8tail |a|brreke rrrekeb| of thea| fluve of the tail of the gawan8| of her snuffdrab shuiler's skirt trailed |8fifty ffiffty8| Irish miles behind her on the road.

Hellsbells, I'm sorry I missed her! Sweet umptyum and nobody fainted. But in whelk of her mouths? Was her naze alight? Everyone that saw her said the dowse little delia looked a bit queer. Lotsy trotsy, mind the poddle! |8Missus, be good and don't fol in the say!8| Funny poor frump she must have charred. Kickhams a rummier ever you saw. Making soft mullet's eyes at her boys dobelong. And they crowned her the queen of the may. Of the may? You don't say! 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, |8fruiteyeingº and flowerfeeding,8| lolling and leasing on Lazy Wall by the Jook of Yoick's 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|8, Wit-upon-Crutches to Master Bates8|: 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 |8while it's fresh |afriska| from the soorce8|. I bet my beard it's worth while poaching on. Shake it up, do, do! |8That's a good old son of a ditch!8| I promise I'll make it worth your while. And I don't mean maybe. Tell me more but tell me true.

Well, arondgirond |8in a waveney line8| she pattered and swung and sidled, dribbling her boulder through narrows of mosses, |8the diliskydrear on our |adry driera| side and the vildevetchvineº agin us, curaro here, careero there,8| not knowing which medway to strike it, like Santa Claus at the call of the pale and puny, |8bending to hear for their tiny hearties,8| with a Christmas box apiece for each and every one of her childer. The rivulets ran to see, the glashaboys, the pollynooties. And they all about her, youths and maidens, rickets and riots, |8like the Smyly boys at their vicereine's levee,º8| chipping her and raising a bit of a jeer or cheer every time she'd neb in her culdee sack of rubbish she robbed and reach out her maundy merchandise, stinkers and heelers, laggards and |8primeboys primelads8|, her furzeborn sons and dribblederry daughters, a thousand and one of them, and wickerpotluck for each of them. |8For evil and ever. And |akick kiksa| the buch.8| A tinker's bann 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 MacFarlane: 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: a papal flag of the saints and stripes for Kevineen O'Dea: a puffpuff for Pudge Craig and a nightmarching hare for Toucher |8Doyle Thumb8|: 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 Teague 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 Mortimer: a snake in clover and a vaticanned vipercatcher's visa for Patsy Presbys: scruboak beads for beatified Biddy: two appletweed stools for Eva Mobbely: for Sara Philpot a jordan vale tearjar: a pretty box of Pettyfib's Powder for Eileen Alannah to whiten her teeth and outflash Helen Arhone: a whipping top for Eddy Lawless: for Kitty Coleraine of |8Buttermilk Butterman's8| Lane a penny wise for her foolish pitcher: a putty shovel for |8Larry |aPatty Terrya|8| the Puckaun: a potamus mask for Promoter Dunne: a dynamite egg for Paul the Curate:
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a tibertine's pile with a Congoswood cross on the back for Sunny Jim: |8a glory be and spare me days for Brian the |abrave Bravoa|:8| 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 Rogerson Crusoe Friday fast for Caducus Angelus Rubiconstein: three hundred and sixtysix poplin tyne for revery warp in the weaver's woof for Victor |8Hugonot Hugoknotº8|: a stiff |8steaded8| rake and good |8varians8|
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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: |8a guillotine shirt for Reuben Redbreast und hempen suspendeats for Brennan on the Moor:8| a C3 peduncle for Karmalite Kane: 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: all lock and no stable for Honorbright Meretrix: a big drum for Billy Dunboyne: |8a |agolden |bgoldy guiltygoldenyºb|a| bellows, below me blow me,º for Ida Ida and a Hushabyº rocker, Elletrouvetout for Who-is-silvier —º |ashe is who Where-is-he?a|:º8| whatever you like to swilly 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 |8Katty Kanel and8| Peggy Quilty and |8Nora Briery8| Brosna and Teasy Kieran and Ena Lappin |8and Muriel Mosel8| and Flora Ferns and Fauna Fox-Goodman and Una and Bina and Trina La Mesme and Philomena O'Farrell and Irmak Elly and Josephine Foyle and Snakeshead Lily and Fountainoy 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 porkbarrel seal. No wonder they'd run from her |8like the pison8| plague. Throw us your hudson soap for the honour of Clane! The wee taste 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? |8Only snuffers'
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cornets drifts my way that the cracked divine chucks out of his cassock. Foul strips of his Chinook'sº bible I do be reading, chickled with chuckles. Eº Senior ga dito: |aFacciasi Faciasia| Omo! E Omoº fu fòº. Ho! Ho! Eº Senior ga dito: Faciasi Hidamo! Eº Hidamo se ga facessà. Ha! Ha! And Die Windermere
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and Lefanu (Sheridan's) Old House by the Churchyard and Mill (J.) On Woman with Ditto on the Flossº. O, a swamp for your Miller and a stone for his flossies!º
8| 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 sedge I saw it. Hoangho, my sorrow, I've lost it! With that turbary water who could see? But O, |8go on. gihon!8| 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 and that's the he and the she of it. 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! I'd want to go to Aches-les-Pains. 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 churning chill. Der went 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 |8Dunders de8| Dunnes |8in Markland's Vineland8| beyond Brendan's |8sea herring |apond poola|8| takes number nine in |8yangsee's8| hats. And one of Biddy's
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beads went bobbing lonesome till she rounded up last histereve 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 |8in the loop of the years prefixed and between8| is
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one kneebuckle and two hooks in the front. Do you tell me that now? I do, in troth. |8And didn't you hear it a deluge of times? You deed, you deed! I died, I died!8| Oronoko! What's your trouble? Is that the great Finnleader himself in his joakimono on his statue riding the high horse there forehengist? |8Father of Otters, it is himself!8| 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. |8Ireland sober is Ireland stiff. Your prayers.8| Were you lifting your elbow, tell us, glazy cheeks, in the Carrigacurra canteen? Was I what, hobbledyhips? 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? |8You won your limp fromº the eleven hussars when Collarº and Cuffs was heir to the town and your slur gave the stink to Carlow.8| Holy Scamander! I saw it again! Near the golden falls. Icis on us! There! Subdue your noise, you poor creature! What is it but a blackberry growth or the dwyergray ass them four old codgers owns. Are you maining Tarpey and Lyons and Gregory? I mean now, thank all, 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. |8We'll meet again, we'll part once more. |aThe spot I'll seek if the hour you'll find.a| I have y I see my chart where |ayou spill the blue milk the blue milk's upseta|. And |athere's takea| your watch, forgetmenot.8| My sights are swimming thicker on me by the shadows to this place. I'll sow home slowly now by own way, moyvalley way. Tow will I too, rathmine.

Ah, but she was the queer old skeowsha anyhow, Anna Livia, |8twinkletoes |atrinkletoes trinklytoesºa|8|! 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. |8Suds Sudds8| 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, |8|alike |ban old anyb| Etrurian Catholic Heathen,a| in their pinky limony creamy viridies and their turkiss indienne mauves,.8| |8but But8| at milkidmass who was the spouse? Then all that was was fair. In Elvenland! Teems of times and happy returns. The same anew. Ordovico or viricordo. Anna was, Livia is, Plurabelle's to be. Northmen's thing made southfolk's place but howmulty plurators made eachone in person? Latin me that, my trinity scholard|8, out of the sanscreed into the eryan8|. 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!