Galleys, 2 copies, April 1937-December 1938, §2C draft level 14, 14+

MS British Library 47487 44-48; 181-185 Draft details

Echo, read ending! |14Siparioramoci!º |+(But from the stress of their sunder enlivening, atº clasp, deciduously, a nikrokosmikon |awill musta| come to mike.)+|14|

Well, |14my positively last at any stage!14| I hate to look at alarms but however they put on my watchcraft must now close as I hereby hear by ear from my seeless socks 'tis time to be up and ambling. |14|aMy middle Mymiddlea| toe's mitching, so mizzle I must else 'twill sarve me out. Gulp a bulper at parting and the moore the melodest. Farewell but whenever, as Tisdall told Toole.14| Tempos fidgets. Let flee me fiacckles, says the grand old manoark, stormcrested crowcock and undulant hair, hoodies tway! Yes, faith, I am as mew let freer, beneath me corthage, bound. |14I'm as |abord boreda| now bawling beersgrace at sorepaws there as Andrew Clays was sharing sawdust with Daniel's old collie.14| This shack's not big enough for me now. I'm dreaming of ye, azores. And remember this, a chorines, there's the witch on the heath, sistra! Bansheeba peeling hourihaared while her Orcotron is hoaring
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ho. And whinn muinnuitt flittsbit twinn her ttittshe cries tallmidy! (14Daughters of the heavens, be lucks in turnaboutsº to the wandering sons of red loam!14) The earth's atrot! The sun's a scream! (14The air's a jig!º14) The water's great! Seven oldy oldy hills and the one blue beamer. I'm going. I know I am. I could bet I am. Somewhere I must get, far away from Banba shore, wherever I
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am. No saddle, no staffet, but spur on the moment. So I think I'll take freeboots' advice. Psk! I'll borrow a path to lend me wings, quickquack, and from Jehusalem's wall, clickclack, to Cheerup street me courser's clear till I'll travel the void world over. It's Winland for moyne, bickbuck! Geejakers! I hurt meself nettly that time! Come, my good frogmarchers! We felt the fall but we'll front the defile. Was not my oltu mutther, Sereth Maritza, a Runningwater? And the bould one that quickened her the seaborne Fingale? |14|+I feel like that hill of a whaler went yudlingº round Groenmund's Circus with his tree full of seaweeds and Dinky Doll asleep in her shell. Hazelridge has seen me. Ierneº valing is.+|14| Squall aboard for Kew, hop! Farewell awhile to her and thee! The brine's my bride to be. (14Lead on, Macadam, and danked be he who first sights Halt Linduff! Solo, solone, solong! Lood Erynnana, ware thee wail! With me singame soarem o'erem!14) Here's me takeoff. Now's nunc or nimmer, siskinder! Here goes the enemy! Bennydick hotfoots onimpudent stayers. Sorry! I bless alls to the whished with this panroman apological which Whatllwewhistlem sang to the kerrycoys. Break ranks! After wage-of-battle bother I am thinking most. Fik yew! I'm through. Won. Toe. Adry. You watch my smoke.

After poor Jaun the Boast's last fireless words of postludium of his soapbox speech ending in's heaven, twentyaid add one with a flirt of wings were pouring to his bysistance |14(could they snip that curl of curls to lay with their gloves and keep the kids bright!),º14| prepared to cheer him should he leap or to curse him should he fall, with their biga triga rheda rodeo, the cherub's in the charabang, setdown here and sedan chair, don't you wish you'd a yoke or a bit in your mouth, but, repulsing all attempts
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at first hands on, |14as no es nada,14| our greatly misunderstood one we perceived to give himself some sort of a hermetic prod or kick to sit up and take |+14notice notice,+|14| which acted like |+14magic magic,+|14| while the phalanx of daughters of February Filldyke, embushed and climbing, ramblers and weeps, voiced approval in their customary manner by dropping kneedeep in tears over their concelebrated meednight sunflower(14, piopadey boy, their solase in dorckaness,14) and splattering together joyously the plaps of their tappyhands as, with a cry of genuine distress, so prettly prattly pollylogue, they viewed him, the just one, their darling, away.

|14|+A dream of favours, a favourable dream. They know how they believe that they believe that they know. Wherefore they wail.+|14|

Eh jourd'weh! |+14Oe Oh+|14| jourd'woe! Dosiriously it psalmodied. Guesturn's lothlied answring to-maronite's wail.

Oasis, cedarous esaltarshoming Leafboughnoon!

Oisis, coolpressus onmountof Sighing!
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Oasis, palmost esaltarshoming Gladdays!

Oisis, phantastichal roseway anjerichol!

Oasis, newleavous spaciosing encampness!

Oisis, plantainous dewstuckacqmirage playtennis!

Pipetto, Pipetta has misery unnoticed!

But the strangest thing happened. Backscuttling for the hopoff, with the odds altogether in favour of his tumbling into the river, Jaun just then I saw to collect from the gentlest weaner among the weiners (who by this were in half droopleaflong mourning for the passing of the last post) the familiar yellow label into which he let fall a drop, smothered a curse, choked a guffaw, spat expectoration and blew his own trumpet. And next thing was he gummalicked the stickyback side and stamped the oval badge of belief to his agnellous brow with a genuine dash of irrepressible piety that readily turned his ladylike typmanzelles capsy curvy (the holy scamp!) with a half a glance of Irish frisky |14(|sha Juan Jaimesansh| hastaluego)14| from under the shag of his parallel brows. It was then he made as if he … but he waved instead a hand across the sea as notice to quit while the pacifettes made their armpacts widdershins (Frida! Freda!
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Paza! Paisy! Irene! Areinette! Birdomay! Bentamai! Sososokky! Bebebekka! Bababadkessy! Ghugugoothoyou! Dama! Damadomina! Takiya! Tokaya! Scioccara! Sciuccherellina! Peocchia! Peucchia! Ho Mi Hoping! Ha Me Happinice! Mirra! Myrha! Solyma! Salemita! Sainta! Sianta! O Peace!), but in selfrighting the balance of his corporeity to reexchange widerembraces with the pillarbosom of the Dizzier he loved prettier, between estellos and venoussas, bad luck to the lie but, when next to nobody expected, their star and gartergazer at the summit of his climax toppled a lipple on to the off and, making a brandnew start for himself to run down his easting by blessing hes sthers with the sign of the southern cross, his bungaloid borsaline with the hedgygreen bound blew off in a loveblast (award for trover!) and Jawjon Redhead, bucketing after, meccamaniac (the headless shall have legs!), kingscouriered round with an easy rush and ready relays by the bridge a stadion beyond Ladycastle (and what herm but he narrowly missed fouling her buttress for her but for he acqueducked) and then|14, cocking a snook at the stock of his sermons, so mear and yet so fahr from that region's general,14| away with him at the double, the hulk of a garron, pelting after the road on Shanks's mare, let off like a windhound loose (the bouchal! you'd think it was that moment they gave him the jambos!) with a posse of tossing hankerwaves to his windward like seraph's summonses on the air and a tempest of good things in packetshape teeming from all accounts into the funnel of his |14fanmail14| shrimpnet, along the highroad of the nation, Traitors' |+14Trot Track+|14|, following which |14fond |shfloral fraysh|14|
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he was quickly lost to sight through the statuemen, though without a doubt he was all the more on that samehead to memory dear, while Sickerson, |14that borne of bjoerne,14| la garde auxiliaire, she murmured|14, hellyg Ursulinka,º14| full of woe |14|+(and how fitlier should Goodboy'sº hand be shook than by the warmin of her besom that wrung his swaddles?)+|14|: Where maggot Harvey kneeled till bags? Ate Andrew coos hogdam farvel!

Whethen, |14|+now,+|14| may the good people |+14now+|14| speed you, rural Haun, export stout fellow that you are, the crooner born with sweet
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wail of evoker, healing music, ay, and heart in hand of Shamrogueshire! |14|+The googoos of the suckabolly in the rockabeddy are become the copiosity of wiseablenesses of the friarylayman in the pulpitbarrel.+|14| May your bawny hair grow rarer and fairer, our own only wide-headed boy! Rest your voice! Feed your mind! Mint your peas! Coax your qyous! Come to Lisdoonblarney and walk our groves so charming and see again the sweet rockclose where first you hymned O Chiesa Mia! And touch the light theorbo. Songster, angler, choreographer! Piper to prisoned! Musicianship made Embrassador-at-Large! Good by nature and natural by design, had you but been spared to us, Hauneen lad, but sure 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 game and always something new. Gone is Haun! My grief, my ruin! Our Joss-el-Jovan! Our Chris-na-Murty! 'Tis well you'll be looked after from last to first as yon beam of light we follow receding on your photophoric pilgrimage to your antipodes in the past, you who so often consigned your distributory tidings of great joy into our nevertoolatetolove box, mansuetudinous manipulator, victimisedly victorihoarse, dearest Haun of them all, you of the boots, true as a die, stepwalker, pennyatimer, lampaddyfair, postanulengro, our rommanychiel. Thy now palewaning light lucerne we ne'er may see again. But could it speak how nicely would it splutter to the four cantons praises be to thee, our pattern sent! For you had — may I|14|+, in our, your and their names,+|14| dare to say it? — the nucleus of a glow of zeal of soul of service such as rarely if ever have I met with in single men. Numerous are those who, nay, there are a dozen of folks still unclaimed by the death angel in this country of ours today, humble indivisibles in this grand continuum, overlorded by fate and interlarded with accidence, who, while there are hours and days, ere he retourneys postexilic, will fervently pray to the Spirit above that they may never depart this earth of theirs till in his long run, from that place where the day begins, on that day that belongs to joyful Ireland, |14|+the people that is of all time, the old old oldest, the young young youngest,+|14| after decades of
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longsuffering and decennia of briefglory, to mind us of what was when and to matter us of
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the whithering of our whys, their Janyouare Fibyouare wins true from Sylvester and (only Waltzer himself is like Waltzer, whimsicalissimo they go murmurand) comes marching ahome on the summer crust of the flagway. Life, it is true, will be a blank without you because avicuum's not there at all, to nomore cares from nomad knows, ere Molochy wars bring the devil era, a slip of the time between a date and a ghostmark, rived by darby's chilldays embers, spatched fun Juhn that dandyforth, from the night we are and feel and fade with to the yesterselves we tread to turnupon.

But, boy, you did your strong nine furlong mile in slick and slapstick record time and a farfetched deed it was in troth, champion docile with your high bouncing gait of going, and your feat of passage will be contested with you and through you for centuries to come. The phaynix rose a sun before Erebia sank his smother! Shoot up on that, bright Bennu bird! |14|+Va faotre!+| |shEftsoon |+so too+| will our |+own+| sphoenix spark spirt his spyre and sunward stride the vampanteº|14| Ay, already the sombrer opacities of the gloom are sphanished! Brave footsore Haun! Work your progress! Hold to! |14|+Now!+|14| Win out, ye divil ye! The silent cock shall crow at last. The west shall shake the east awake. Walk while ye have the night, for morn, lightbreakfastbringer, morroweth whereon every past shall full fost sleep. Amain.