2nd fair copy of §C, June 1924, §2C draft level 2
MS British Library 47482b 57-61 Draft details
— |3Indeed and I will, Shaun replied3| You are most gloriously kind as ever, dear relative, Jaun replied |3and I truly am obligated |aThat, I can assure you, is an honoura|3|. But 'tis high time to be up and going. This shack is not big enough for me now. |3Somewhere I must get |a& faraway from Ireland's shorea|. So I think I'll take my own advice and I'll travel the |awilda| world over.3| Come, my good feet, corns and all. Was not my mother a Runningwater? Farewell awhile to her and thee. So|3, Now or never,3| here goes |3the enemy3|. |3Now or never.3| I bless you all to the west as Whatwillwecallhim said to the Kerryboys. Won. Toe. Adry. You watch my smoke.
After poor Jaun the Boast's last words ending in smoke twenty eight add one of the paddling party were coming to his assistance but repulsing all attempts at first aid our greatly misunderstood one we perceived to give himself some sort of a kick or prod to sit up and take notice which acted like magic while
|3all the the phalanx of3| daughters of February Filldyke voiced their approval in the customary manner by dropping to their knees and clapping
together the flats of their hands as they viewed him away, the just one, their darling, away.
Jaun just then I saw to take from the gentlest weepers weeper among the wailers, who were by this in half mourning for the passing of the |3last3| post, the familiar yellow label into which he let fall a
tear, smothered a sigh, choked a cough, spat his expectoration and blew his own trumpet. Next thing was he licked the stickyback side and stamped the badge of belief to his brow with a genuine dash that easily turned the feminine world upside down|3, the holy
scamp,3| with a half a glance of |3Irish3| frisky from under the shag of his parallel brows. It was then he waved a hand across the sea as notice to
quit but in selfrighting the balance of him to exchange embraces with the bosom he loved best, bad luck to the lie but he toppled a lipple on to the off and, making a brandnew start for himself by blessing his stars with the sign of the southern cross, his hat blew off and |3Jaun
Jawon3| Redhead |3bucketed after and bucketing after3| kingscouriered round by the bridge beyond Ladycastle (and he narrowly missed
fouling her buttress for her in the act) and then away with him |3at the double, the hulk of a garron, pelting after the road,3| on Shanks's
mare, (the bouchal, you'd think it was that moment they gave him the legs) along the highroad of the nation following which he
quickly was lost to sight though without a doubt he was all the more on that account to memory dear |3while |aSigurdsen Sickersoona|, the auxiliary, he murmured, full of woe: |aWhore Wherea| maggot Harvey leftinand ate Andrew coos |aogdamn hogdamna| farewell3|.
Whethen, may the good people now speed you, rural Jaun, export stout fellow, that you are, ay, and heart and soul of Shamrogueshire! May your bawny hair grow fairer and rarer, our own only whiteheaded boy. Good by nature and natural by design had you but been spared to us, Jauneen lad,
but|3, sure,3| where's the use my talking quicker when I know you'll hear me all astray? My long farewell I send to you, fair dream of sport and joke and always something new. Gone is Jaun! My grief,
my ruin! 'Tis well you'll be looked after from last to first as the beam of light we follow receding on your pilgrimage to the antipodes in the past, you who so oft consigned your |3distributary3| tidings of grand joy into our never too late to love box,
dearest Jaun of them all, you of the boots, true as a die, pennyatimer. Thy now palewaning lamp we ne'er may see again. Ah, could it only speak how 'twould splutter out its praises be to thee! For you had — may I dare to say it? — a glow of zeal of service
such as rarely if ever have I seen in any single man's case. There are men still unclaimed by the death angel |3in this country of ours today3| who will fervently pray to the Spirit above that they never may depart this earth of theirs till |3in the long run3| Johnny Walker comes marching ahome. Life it is true will be a blank without you, a slip of the time between a date and a |3date ghostmark3| from the night we are and feel to the yesterselves we |3love fear3| to remember.
But, boy, you did your strong nine furlong mile in slick and slapstick record time and a |3good farfetched3| deed it was indeed, champion docile with your high bouncing service gait, and one that will be contested for centuries. And already the sombrer |3opacity opacities3| of the gloom |3is are3| sphanished. Brave footsore Jaun! Hold out to! Win out, ye divil ye! The silent cock shall crow at last. The west shall shake the east awake. Walk while you have the night for the morn|3, light breakfastbringer,3| |3cometh morroweth3| whereon every post shall |3sleep. full fast sleep.3|