MS Buffalo V.A.8 20-21-19-18 Draft details

(U84 1512-1577)
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Cusack read on:

— A distinguished gathering assembled to do honour to a ruler of Africa, the Alaki of |1Abekuta Abeakuta1|. A delegation from the chief cotton magnates of the district was presented to His Majesty by Gold Stick in Waiting, Lord Walkup of Walkup on Eggs, and tendered their |1best heartfelt1| thanks to His Majesty for the facilities afforded to British traders in His Majesty's dominion. The negro potentate graciously acknowledged replied in the |1course of a1| gracious |1terms1| and speech, translated by the British chaplain from Alakamekohapth, the reverend Ananias Praisegod Barebones, |1tendered his thanks to Massa Walkup1| |1&1| emphasised the cordial relations existing between his people and the British empire and stated that he treasured as one of his dearest possessions an illuminated bible presented to him by |1her late Majesty, Queen Victoria the |agreat Greata| Squaw1|. Amid general applause the Alaki then drank a loving cup to the toast of “The King, God bless him” from the skull of his immediate predecessor |1in the dynasty1|, Kakachakachak, |1surnamed Bull's Eye nicknamed Forty Warts1|. The ceremony was brought to a close by a musical setting of the versicle I am black but comely excellently rendered by the royal musicians |1on |awith upona| their curious1| native instruments, alligator carapaces strung with the guts of vanquished Zulu warriors and the |1perforated1| thighbones of early christian missionaries, the effect of these
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latter being quite remarkably similar to the dulcet |1|aplaintive melancholya|1| tones of the Italian ocarina.

|1O, trust the widow woman, says Ned Lambert.1| Wonder |1what did1| he did |1with1| the bible |1to the same use as Iwould1|, says Ned Lambert. I could have put it to a good use.

The same only more so, says Lenehan. And thereafter in |1Abekuta that fruitful land1| the broadleaved |1palm mango1| flourished exceedingly.
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— Is that by Griffith? says —. |1It's like what that chap writes under the name of Heblon.1|

— I don't know, says —, it's |1only1| initialled “P”.

— Bloody good initial too, says —.

— No, Griffith's stuff is signed Shanganagh, says O'Madden Burke

— Are you going to write that |1Xmas1| pantomime? asked —

— Yes, by God, I heard about that. Brian Boru or Finn MacCool isn't it?
|1— Well, says O'MB, we're sick of those puling pantomimes with their musichall songs & girls in tights.1|

— Do you know it was Bloom gave Griffith the hard word about that |1Hungarian lay Sinn Fein1| lay he's on.

— Using the county councils, is it?

— Yes and chucking up the sending no more members over to London

— Leaders of the Irish people at home and abroad, says —

— Well, isn't it sensible. If Peter the Packer, he says, can pack a jury |1for the crown1| why can't you pack the civil service |1& swindle them in taxes1| and the police and the constabulary |1and boycott the post too, that was an idea of his, have your own private post that they can't open the letters1|.

— And they want to send Irish consuls to the continent to open up direct trade

— What about the kudos? says —

— Well, and wouldn't Irish Americans put their money into it.

(U84 1364-1408)

Then did you speak, noble Cusack, |1lifting up your voice,1| and all men heard:

— They were driven out of house and home |1in black '47 |awhen even the Turks helped us with their piastresºa|1|. Their |1cabins |aroadhouses mudcabins by the roadsidea|1| were laid low by the battering rams of the Sassenach.
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|1Andº the Times rubbed its hands and told the whitelivered English public that there would soon be as few Irish in Ireland as redskins in India and suggested to ship off the few of us that still lived praying for death to the banks of the Ganges.
Twenty thousand of the poor wretches died in the coffinships and the land full of harvest and the nation of shopkeepers, as Napoleon called them, selling |1our the1| harvest of our peasants in rio de Janeiro & hoarded it up in famine time till it rotted
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They departed with tears & wailing for the land of the brave and free to |1make build1| up there a greater Ireland beyond the waves. They departed: but they will come again. And with a vengeance. The sons of Granuaile.
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— We're a long time waiting for that, says — One time it was the French have landed at Killala. Then the Amer Yankees, now it's the Germans or the Japanese. |1Look at all the generals and soldiers went to France and Sp. and Austr. when the Cromwellians drove them out, the wild geese. Fontenoy, eh? Sarsfield, the O'Donnell Duke of Tetuan in Spain, Ulysses Browne of Camus & Mountany that was f. marshal to Maria
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º and Marshal Macmahon, j'y suis, j'y reste. And what did we ever get for it?
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— The French! says —. |1Set of dancing masters!1| Do you know what it is! They were never worth a roasted fart to Ireland. Now they're going to make an alliance with |1England perfidious Albion1| |1against the Germans1|.

Conspuez les anglais, says Lenehan.

He knows a bit of French he picked up in the smutty papers.

— The Germans! says —. Haven't we had enough of |1them those sausage eaters1| on the throne since George the Elector, and the flatulent old bitch that's dead.

— And Edward the peacemaker, says —.

Tell that to a fool, says —, there's a bloody sight more pox than pax about him if you ask me. And when he was over here last year in Maynooth what about the priests and bishops |1the holy boys1| that killed our rightful king, Charles Stewart Parnell, |1doing up his room in his racing colours &1| sticking up |1round the wall1| pictures of all the horses his jockeys rode. They ought to have stuck up pictures of all the married women he rode himself

— Considerations of space, says JJ O'M, no doubt influenced their lordships' choice.

|1— The O'Conor Don MacDermot who died was our lawful king, says — Hugh Hyacinth, the MacDermot, prince of Coolavin.

— No, says —. The O'Conor Don. He's the descendant of Roderick O'Conor, the last king of all Ireland.1|

— We want no king or crown |1or mitre1|, says blank
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The Royal Stuarts were as bad.

— Strangle the last king |1with the guts in the windpipe1| of the last priest. We want neither French nor Germans. |1We want ourselves. Sinn Fein. Sinn Fein amhain.1|

— I tell you what it is, says —, there's a war coming for the English and the Germans will give them a hell of a gate of going. |1What they got from the Boers is what you might call an hors d'oeuvre1|

— But aren't you after saying …? says —

— I know what I'm after saying, says —. But this time, whether they win or lose, they'll have to fight their match not naked Zulus to mow them down with machine guns & Ashantimen with |1tomahawks puttyknives1| in their hands. Not likely! They'll be up against an army that'll kill a man for every man they kill. Wait till you see.

Thus did they laud the prowess of those farfamed races, the lordly Gauls |1(or Gaiculs, as |athey are named in story some do name thema|), sons of the Gamecock1|, a noble nation descended from the gods, nimble of foot, who dwell in the land of Oui-Oui and of their neighbours, the lordly Teutons |1(whom Teuton or Chewaton begat upon (from Teuton or Chewaton are they yclept) the numerous brood of the Stork,1| a noble race of the seed of the gods, feasters at the board, whose dwelling is in the land of Ja-Ja.