2nd draft, November-December 1924, §3A draft level 1

MS British Library 47482b 61-64 Draft details

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1) Lowly, longly a wail went forth. Pure Yawn lay low. On the mead of the hillock he lay, his brief wallet at his side, one arm still loosely on his staff of citron briar. Most distressfully (but, my dear, how successfully!) he wailed, his lashbetasselled locks |1of a Lucan tinge1|, quickrich, ripely rippling, unfilleted, those lashbetasselled lids on the verge of closing time and out of his sidewiseopen mouth, the breath of him, as languishing as the princeliest |1golden syrup treble treacle |aor lichoo chewchowa|1| purse could buy. Yawn in a semiswoon was wailing. And,
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hooh!, what heaps of honeyfed sweetness! Phew! What earpiercing dulcitude! As though you were to go and push with your pin in either hand into the fleshplush cushionettes of some chubby boybold love of an angel.

And as the buzzer brings the |1fire light1| brigade |1keeping the home wires burning,1| so did they come from all parts |1by the first quaint skreek of the gloaming1|, hopping |1it, up the little mountainy molehill, traversing climes of the days gone by, of the times not worth remembering, &1| inventing |1some1| excuses |1|awith a sevenfold sweat of nightfears over them, phopho, furchu, aggala, jishi, |bpallula palloolab|, uridimini,a| for fear of the kind of chap he was, |aells |band uponb| ells |bso many square feet of himb| of him at one fair stretch among the daffydowndillies |bwith a halohedge of wild spuds hovering over him, mixodorian, epicures & gardenfillers, a pair of puritan shoots and a posse of Aran chiefs,b|a| |aarrowroot meteora| flesh & |ablankskin rainbowskina|, |aa belly |bvoidb| of nebulose under a neverstop navel,a| |aphosphor phosphor & melanitea| |ashootinga| veins |aof phosphor & melanitea| & arrowroot knuckles, |aribs & members, alla| observable.1|
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He is giving, the wee lad (Mw). Y. has lived.

The four |1came claymen clomb together1| to hold their sworn inquiry to the mead |1by Esker ridge1|, the son's rest. Matthew Gregory through the deep field, |1Mark Tarpey, following in his Marcus Lyons, tailing the wavy line of partition1| footsteps |1(they had been there before)1|, |1then His Recordership,1| Luke Tarpey, after honourable sleep, and old Johnny Mac, Johnny MacDougal, |1the hiker,1| in the rere on the run |1from his prompt corner |ato make a quorum,a|1| roping their |1|askygreya| globetrotting1| ass, |1|ain an by way ofa| afterthought1| and tumbling |1on legs of uneven length1| to hear |1with |athea| unaided ear1| the |1concert harp in the air, wild as wild1|, the bugleblowing, |1the mockingbird whose word is misfortune, so 'tis said,1| the bulbul down the wind.

The proto |1was traipsing |aon the weatherside of hima| through the tangle then &1| heldº |1extended1| aloft a silencing hand. |1All The buckos on the lee1| stood where they were |1found1| around the poster's bed |1& set the watch about him1|, the |1claymen four the quatyouare of stenoggers, |ain their |bbroadawain broadawakeb| hats, the probers,a|1| & the ass, odd trick of the pack. Be all of your hoosht! Let sleeping letters yawn! Twas |1so he sang even thus oped he his lips |a& while mist & moonset melded into songa|1| to them, half ensorcelled. The song of a selfspinning song, a satrap amid satellites. For old Matt Gregory he had a star menagerie: Marcus Lyons and Lucas Metcalf Tarpey and the |1man mack1| that never |1forgot the forgave their1| ass that |1went lurked1| behind them, Johnny na Hazzle Hossaleen.

Why so? (Luke)

Is he sick or what |1the burly youngster1|? (Mk)

Yes. Listen (Mw)

Why so? Speak up, some of ye (Lu)

The wind's from the wrong cut, |1so it is says Ned of the hill1| (Jy)

Whisht ye all! Herring is up!

And around they cooched, curchy curchy. They spread their night drifter net to mesh the |1notes quavers1| of scaly silver, |1the golden tones the clutches of1| the |1full gleamy1| chromes of |1unread spanishing gold1|. Get
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busy kid. Hip! Chirpey, now. The present is a good time.