1st typescript, January 1925/April 1926, §2C draft level 5

MS British Library 47483 121, 159, missing, 160-161 Draft details

|5I hate to look at alarms5| But |5I |asee heara| by myº seeless socks5| 'tis time to be up and ambling. This shack's not big enough for me now. |5I'm going. I know I am. I could betº I am.5| Somewhere I must get, faraway from Banba shore|5, wherever I
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5|. So I think I'll take |5freeboot advice freeboots' advice.º I'll borrow a path5| and down and up I'll travel the |5vast void5| world over. |5It's Winland for |amine moynea|!5| Come, my good |5feet frogmarchers5|! Was not my mother a Runningwater? Farewell awhile to her and thee! So, now or never. Here goes the |5enemy. enemy!5| I bless all to the west as |5Whatwillwecallhim Whatwillwewhistlehim5| sang to the Kerryboys. |5Fick Fik kew!5| I'm through. Won. Toe. Adry. You watch my smoke.

After poor Jaun the Boast's last words ending in smoke twentyeight add one of the paddling party were |5coming |apelting pouringa|5| to his assistance but, repulsing all attempts
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at first |5aid hands on5|, our greatly misunderstood one we perceived to give himself some sort of a |5hermetic5| prod or kick to sit up and take notice which acted like magic while the phalanx of daughters of February Filldyke voiced approval in |5the their5| customary manner by dropping |5to their knees kneedeep in tears |aover their midnight sunflower a|5| and |5clapping splattering5| together |5joyously5| the |5flats pats5| of their |5hands tappy hands5| as they viewed him, the just one, their darling, away.

Jaun just then I saw to collect from the gentlest weeper among the wailers, who by this were in half |5|along droop leaf longa|5| 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 badge of belief to his brow with a genuine dash |5of irrepressibleº piety5| that readily turned |5the feminine audience upside down, his ladylike |ablank typmanzellesa| capsy curvyº5| (the holy scamp!) with a half a glance of Irish 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 |5bosom pillarbosom of the Dizzy5| he loved best, bad luck to the lie but|5, whenº next to nobody expected,º5| 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 |5bungalow5| hat blew off |5in a loveblast5| and Jawjon Redhead, bucketing after, kingscouriered round |5with an easy rush5| by the bridge beyond Ladycastle (and he narrowly missed fouling her buttress for her in the act) and then away with him at the double, the hulk of a garron, pelting after the road 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
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he was quickly lost to sight though without a doubt he was all the more on that account to memory dear, while Sickerson, the auxiliary, he murmured full of woe: Where maggot Harvey leftinit ate Andrews coos hogdamn farewell:

Whethen, may the good people now speed you, rural Haun, export stout fellow that you are, ay, and heart in hand of Shamrogueshire! May your bawny hair grow rarer and fairer, our own only whiteheaded boy! |5Rest your voice! Feed your mind! Mint your peas! Coax your qyous!5| 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! 'Tis well you'll be looked after from last to first as yon beam of light we follow receding on your |5photophoric5| pilgrimage to your antipodes in the past, you who so often consigned your distributory tidings of great joy into our nevertoolatetolove box, dearest Haun of them all, you of the boots, true as a die, stepwalker, pennyatimer|5.,º lampaddyfair.5| Thy now palewaning |5lamp light lucerne5| we ne'er may see again. But could it speak how |5nicely5| would it splutter |5to the four cantons5| praises be to thee! For you had — may I dare to say it? — |5the nucleus of5| a glow of zeal of service such as rarely if ever have I met with in single men. There are folks still unclaimed by the death angel in this country of ours today who will fervently pray to the Spirit above that they may never depart this earth of theirs till |5in the on his5| long run Johnny Walker comes marching ahome |5on the summer crust of the flagway5|. Life, it is true, will be a blank without you, a slip of the time between a date and a ghostmark from the night we are and feel to the yesterselves we dread to remember.

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 will be contested for centuries to come. Ay, already the sombrer opacities of the gloom are sphanished! Brave footsore Haun! Hold to! 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 post shall full fast sleep.