O
tell me all about
Anna Livia! I want to hear

all about Anna Livia. Well, you know Anna Livia? Yes, of course, we all know Anna Livia. Tell me all. Tell me now. You'll die when you hear. Well, you know, when the old chap went futt and did what you know. Yes, I know, go on. Wash away and don't be dabbling. Tuck up your sleeves and loosen your talktapes. Or whatever it was they try to make out he tried to do in the Fiendish Park. He's an awful old rep. Look at the shirt of him! Look at the dirt of it! He has all my water black on me. And it steeping and stuping since this time last week. How many times is it I wonder I washed it? I know by heart the places he likes to soil. Scorching my hand and starving my famine to make his private linen public. Wallop it well with your battle and clean it. My wrists are rusty rubbing the mouldaw stains. And the dneepers of wet and the gangres of sin in it! What was it he did a tail at all on Animal Sendai? And how long was he under lough and neagh? It was put in the papers what he did, nicies and priers, the King fierceas Humphrey, with illysus distilling, exploits and all. But time will tell. I know it will. Time untamed will hist for no man. O, the old old rep! And the cut of him! And the strut of him! How he used to hold his head as high as a howeth, the famous old duke alien, with a hump of grandeur on him like a walking rat! And his derry's own drawl and his corksown blather and his doubling stutter and his gullaway swank. Ask Lictor Hackett or Lector Reade or Garda Growley or the Boy with the Billyclub. How eld is he a called at all? Huges Caput Earlyfouler. Or where was he born or how was he found? Urgothland, Tvistown on the Kattekat? New Hunshire, Concord on the Merrimake? Was her banns never loosened in Adam and Eve's and were him and her ever spliced? Flowey and Mount on the brink of time makes wishes and fears for a happy isthmass. O, pass me that and oxus another! Don Dom Dombdomb and his wee follyo! I heard he dug good tin with his doll when he raped her home, Sabrine asthore, in a perokeet's cage, by dredgerous lands and devious delts, playing catched and mythed with the gleam of her shadda, past auld min's manse and Maisons Allfou and the rest of incurables and the last of immurables, the quaggy way for stumbling. Who sold you that jackalantern's tale? In a gabbard he barqued it, the boat of life, from the harbourless Ivernikan Okean, till he spied the loom of his landfall and he loosed two croakers from under his tilt, the old Phenician rover. By the smell of her kelp they made the pigeonhouse. Like fun they did! But where was Himself, the timoneer? That marchantman he follied their scutties right over the wash, his cameleer's burnous breezing up on him, till with his runagate bowmpriss he roade and borst her bar. Pilcomayo! Suchcaughtawan! And the whale's away with the grayling! Tune
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your pipes and fall ahumming, you born ijypt, and you're nothing short of one! Well, ptellomy soon and curb your froth. When they saw him shoot swift up her sheba sheath, like any gay lord salomon, her bulls they were ruhring, surfed with spree. Nooknoorum nyroo! Nooknoorum nyroo! He erned his lille Bunbath hard, our staly bred, the trader. He did. Look at here. In this wet of his prow. Didn't you know he was a bairn of the sea, Wasserbourne the waterbaby? Havemmarea, so he was. H.C.E. has a briny ee. Sure, she's nearly as bad as him herself. Who? Anna Livia? Ay, Anna Livia! Do you know she was calling backwater girls from all around to go in till him, her erring man, and tickle the pontiff aisy-oisy? She was? Gota pot! Well, that's the limmat! As El Negro said when he looked in La Plate. O, tell me all I want to hear. Letting on she didn't care, the proxenete! Proxenete and phwhat is phthat? Tell us in franca langua. Did they never sharee you ebro at skol, you antiabecedarian? It's just the same as if I was to go for examplum now out of telekinesis and proxenete you. For Coxyt sake and is
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that what she is? Little I thought she'd act that low. Didn't you spot her in her windeye, wubbling up on an osiery chair, with a meusic before her all cunniform letters, pretending to ribble a reedy derg on a fiddle she bows without a band on? Sure she can't fiddan a dee, with bow or abandon! Srue, she can't! Just a suck. Well, I never heard the like of that! Tell me more. Tell me most.

Well, old Humber was as glommen as grampus, with the tares at his thor and the buboes for ages and neither bowman nor shot abroad and bales ablaze on the crests of rockies and devil a lamp in kitchen or church and giant's holes in Grafton's causeway, setting moping on his benk, drammen and drummin, his childlinen scarf to encourage his obsequies, where he'd check their
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debths in that mormon's thames, hungerstriking all alone and holding doomsdag over himself, dreeing his weird with his dander up and his fringe combed over his eygs and keeking on loft till the sight of the sternes after zwarthy kowse and weedy broeks and the tits of buddy and the loits of pest and to peer was Parish worth thette mess. You'd think all was dead belonging to him, how he satt in durance vaal. He had been belching for severn years. And there she was, Anna Livia, she darent catch a winkle of sleep, purling around like a chit of a child, in a Lapsummer skirt and damazon cheeks for to wiss a bonzour to her dear dubber Dan, with neuphraties and sault from his maggias. And an odd time she'd cook him up blooms of fisk and lay to his heartsfoot her meddery eygs and staynish beacons on toasc and a cupenhave so weeshwaashy of greenland's tay or mokau to order or Sinkiang or his ale of ferns in trueartpewter and a shinking bread for to plaise that man hog stay his stomicker till her pyrraknees shrunk to nutmeg graters, and as rash as she'd rush with her peakload of vivers up on her tray (his towering rage it swales and rises!) my bold Hek he'd kast them from him with a stour of scorn as much as to say you this and you that, and if he didn't peg the platteau on her taw, believe you me, she was safe enough. And then she'd esk to vistule a hymn, The Heart Bowed Down or The Rakes of Mallow or Chelli Michele's La Calumnia è un Vermicelli or a balfy bit or Old Jo Robidson. Such fuffing and fifeing 'twould cut you in two! She'd bate the hen that crowed on the turrace of Babbel. What harm if she knew how to cockle her mouth! And not a mag out of Hum no more than out of the
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mangle weight. Is that a faith? That's a fact. Then doing the ricka and queen of queens, Annona, gebroren Nivia, with Sparks' pirryphlickathims funkling her fan, her frostified tresses lit with fireflies —
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while the prom beauties sreeked in their bearers' skins! — in a period gown of changeable jade that would clothe the wood of two cardinals' chairs and crush poor Cullen and smother MacCabe. And brahming to him down the feedchute, with all kinds of fondling endings, the poother rambling off her nose: Vuggybarney, Wickerymandy! Hello, ducky, please don't die! Do you know what she started cheeping then, the voice of her like a watergluck? You'll never guess. Tell me. Tell me. Phoebe, dearest, tell, O tell me and I loved you better nor you knew. And letting on she was daft about the old warbly sangs from over holmen, High hellskirt saw ladies hensmoker lilyhung pigger, and Oom Bothar below in his sandy cloak as deaf as a yawn. Go away! Poor deef old deery! Yare only teesing! Anna Liv? As Chalk is my judge! And didn't she up and rise and go and trot down and stand in her douro, puffing her old dudheen, and every country wench or farmerette walking the pilend roads, Sowy, Fundally, Daery or Maery, Milucre, Awny or Graw, usedn't she make her a sign to slip inside by the sullyport? You don't say the sillypost? I did. And I do. Calling them in one by one (To Blockbeddum here! Here the Shoebenacaddie!) and legging a jig or so on the sihl to show them how to shake their benders and the dainty how to bring to mind the gladdest garments out of sight and all the way of a maid with a man and making a sort of a cackling noise like two and a penny or half a crown and holding up a silver shiner. Lordy, lordy, did she so? Well, of all the ones ever I heard! Throwing all the nice little whores in the world at him! To any captured wench you wish of no matter what sex of playful ways two add a tammar a lizzy alass to hug and have haven in Humpy's apron!

And what was the wyerye rhyme she made? O that! Tell me the trent of it while I'm lathering ^|10'hell hail^10'| out of Denis Florence MacCarthy's combies. I'm dying down off my iodine feet until I hear Anna Livia's cushingloo! I can see that. I see you are. How does it tummel? Listen now. Are you listening? Yes, yes! Indeed I am! Tarn your ear ouse. Essonne inne.

By earth and the cloudy but I badly want a brandnew bankside, bedamp and I do, and a plumper at that!
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For the putty affair I have is wore out, so it is, sitting, yaping and waiting for my old Dane the dodderer, my life in death companion, my frugal key of our larder, my much altered camel's hump, my jointspoiler, my maymoon's honey, my fool to the last Decemberer, to wake himself out of his winter's doze and bore me down like he used to.

Is there irwell a lord of the manor or a knight of the shire at all, I wonder, that'd dip me a pound or two in cash for washing and darning his worshipful socks for him now we're run out of horsemeat and milk?

Only for my short Brittas bed I made is as snug as it smells it's out I'd lep and off with me to the slobs of the Tolka or the shores of Clontarf to hear the gay aire of my salt troublin bay and the race of the saywint up me ambushure.

O go on! Tell me more. Andelle me every tiny bit. I want to know every single thing. Well, now comes the hazelhatchery part. After Clondalkin the Kings's Inns. We'll soon be there with the freshet. How many aleveens had she in toll? I can't rightly tell you that. Close only knows. Some say she had three figures to fill and confined herself to a hundred eleven. She can't remember half of the cradlenames she smacked on them by the grace of her boxing bishop's infallible slipper. A hundred and how? They did well to rechristien her Plurabelle. O loreley! What a loads! She must have been a gadabout in her day, so she must, more than most. Shoal she was, gidgad! She had a flewmen of her owen. Tell me, tell me, how could she cam through all her fellows, the neckar she was, the diveline? Linking one and knocking the next, tapping a flank and tipping a jutty and palling in and petering out and clyding by on her eastway. Waiwhou was the first that ever burst? Someone he was, whoever they were, in a tactic attack or in single combat. Tinker, tailor, soldier, salor, Paul Pry or polishman. That's the thing I always want to know. Push up and push upper and come to headquaters! Was it waterlows year, after Grattan or Flood, or when maids were in Arc or when three stood hosting? Faith will find
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where the Doubt arises like Nemo from Nirgends found the Nihil. Worry you sighin foh, Albern, O Anser? Untie the gemman's fistiknots, Qvic and Nuancee! She can't put her hand on him for the moment. It's a long long way, walking weary! Such a long way backwards to row! She says herself she hardly knows whuon the annals her graveller was, a dynast of Leinster, a wolf of the sea, or what he did or how young she played or when and where and how often he jumnpad her. She was just a young thin pale soft shy slim slip of a thing then, sauntering, and he was a heavy trudging lurching lieabroad of a Curraghman, making his hay for the sun to shine on, as tough as the oaktrees (peats be with them!) used to rustle that time down by the dykes of killing Kildare, that forstfellfoss with a plash across her. She thought she'd sink under the ground with nymphant shame when he gave her the tigris eye! O happy fault! Me wish it was he! You're wrong there, corribly wrong! 'Tisn't only tonight you're anacheronistic! It was ages behind that when nullahs were nowhere, in county
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Wickenlow, garden of Erin, before she ever dreamt she'd lave Kilbride and go foaming under Horsepass bridge, with the great southerwestern windstorming her traces and the midland's grainwaster asarch for her track, to wend her ways byandby, rebecca or worse, to spin and to grind, to swab and to thrash, in the barleyfields and pennylotts of Humphrey's fordofhurdlestown and lie with a landleaper, wellingtonorseher. Alas the lakes of girly days! For the dove of the dunas! Wasut? Izod? Are you sarthe an suir? Not where the Finn fits into the Mourne, not where the Nore takes lieve of Bloem, not where the Bray divarts the Farer, not where the Moy changes her minds between Cullin and Conn and Conn and Cullin? Neya, narev, naux and no! Then whereabouts in Ow and Ovoca? Was it north by south or Lucan Yokan or where the hand of man has never set foot? Dell me where, the very first time! I will if you listen. You know the dingling dale of Luggelaw? Well, there once dwelt a local heremite, Michael Arklow was his riverend name (with many a sigh I aspersed his lavabibs!), and one venersderg in junojuly, so sweet and so fresh and so limber she looked, Nance the Nixie, Nanon L'Escaut, in the silence, of the sycomores, all listening, the kind of curves you simply can't stop feeling, he plunged both of his newly anointed hands up to his wrists in the singing saffron streams of her hair, parting them and soothing her and mingling it, that was deepdark and ample like the red bog at sundown. Maass! He cuddle not help himself, thurst was too hot on him, he had to forget the monk in the man, so, rubbing her up and smoothing her down, he cooled his lips in smiling mood, kiss akiss after kisokiss (as he warned her never to, never to, never), on Anna-na-Poghue's
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freckled forehead. O, wasn't he the bold priest? And wasn't she the naughty Livvy? Nautic Naama's now her navn. Two lads in their breeches went through her before that, Barefoot Byrne and Wary Wade, Lugnaquillia's noble pair, before she had a hint of a hair at her fanny to hide or a bossom to tempt a birch canoedler, not to mention a bulgy porterhorse barge. And ere that again, ledy, ledy, all unredy, too faint to buoy the fairiest rider, too frail to flirt with a cygnet's plume, she was licked by a hound, Chirripa-Churruta, while poing her pee, pure and simple, on the spur of the hill in old Kippure, in birdsong and shearingtime, but first of all, worst of all, the wiggly livvly, she sideslipped out by a gap in the Devil's Glen while Sally her nurse was sound asleep in a sloot and fell over a spillway before she found her stride and lay and wriggled in all the stagnant black pools of rain under a fallow coo and she laughed innocefree with her limbs aloft and a whole drove of maiden hawthorns blushing and looking askance upon her.

Drop me the sound of the ^|10'shorthorn's findhorn's^10'| name. And drip me why in the ^|10'something flenders^10'| was she freckled. And trickle me through was she marcellewaved or was it weirdly a wig she wore. And whitside did they droop their glows in their florry, aback to wist or affront to sea? In fear to hear the dear so near or longing loth and loathing longing? Are you in the swim or are you out? O go on, go on, go on! I mean about what you know. I know right well what you mean. What am I rinsing now and I'll thank you? Is it a pinny or is it a surplice? Arran, where's your nose? And where's the starch? That's not the benediction smell. I can tell from here by their eau de Colo and the scent of her oder they're Mrs Magrath's. And you ought to have aired them. They've moist come off her. Creases in silk they are, not crampton lawn.
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Through her catchment ring she freed them easy, with her hips' hurrahs for her knees' dontelleries. The only pair with frills in old the plain. So they are. Well, well! And there's her nubilee letters too. Ellis on quay in scarlet thread. Linked for the world on a flushcoloured field. Annan exe after to show they're not Laura Kehoe's. Ormond the diabolo twisk your seifety pin! You child of Mammon, Kinsella's Lilith! Now, who has been tearing the leg of her drawers on her? Which leg is it? The one with the bells on it. Rinse them out and aston along with you! Where did I stop? Never stop. Continuarration! You're not there yet. Garonne, garonne!

Well, after it was put in the Beggars' Sitterday Journal (for once they sullied their white kid gloves with their show us it here and their mind out of that and their when you're quite finished with the reading matarial) even the snee that snowdon his hoaring hair had a skunner against him. Thaw, thaw, sava, savuto! Everywhere ever you went and every bung you ever dropped into in cit or in sub or in added areas, the Rose and Bottle or Phoenix Tavern or Power's Inn or Jude's Hotel, or wherever you scoured the countryside from Nannywater to Vartryville or from Porta Lateen to the lootin quarter you found his pixture etsched tipside down or the cornerboys burning his guy and Morris the Man, with the role of a royss in his turgos the turrible (Evropeahahn cheic house, unskimmed sooit and yahoort, hamman now cheekmee, Ahdahm this way make, Fatima, half turn!), reeling and railing around the local with oddfellow's triple tiara busby rotundarinking round his scalp. Like Pate-by-the-Neva or Pete-over-Meer. This is the Hausman all paven and stoned, that cribbed the Cabin that never was owned, that cocked his leg and hennad his Egg. And
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the mauldrin rabble around him in areopage, making a great fracas with their timpan crowders. Mind your Grimmfather! Think of your Ma! She swore on croststyx she'd be level with all the snags of them yet. Par the Vulnerable Virgin's Mary del Dam! So she said to herself she'd frame a plan to fake a shine, the mischiefmaker, the like of it you never heard. What plan? Tell me quick and don't be so crould! What the mischief did she make? Well, she bergened a bag, a shammy mailbag, off one of her swapsons, Shaun the Post, and then she went and consulted her chapbooks, old Mot Moore, Casey's Euclid and the Fashion Display, and made herself tidal to join in the mascarete. O goggle of
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gigglers, I can't tell you how! It's too screaming funny, rabbit it all! O, but you must, you must really! By the holy well of Mulhuddart I swear I'd pledge my chance of getting to heaven to hear it all, every word. O, leave me my faculties, woman, a while! If you don't like my story get out of the punt. Well, have it your own way so. Here, sit down and do as you're bid. Lisp it slaney and crisp it quiet. Tell me longsome. Take your time now. Breathe deep. That's the fairway. Hurry slow and scheldt you go. Give us your blessed ashes here till I scrub the canon's underpants. Flow now. Ower more.

First she let her hair fall and down it flussed to her feet its teviots winding coils. Then, mothernaked, she sampood herself with galawater and mudsoap, upper and lower, from crown to sole. Next she greased the groove of her keel, warthes and wears and mole and itcher, with antifouling butterscotch and turfentine and serpenthyme, and with leafmould she ushered round prunella isles and islets dun allover her little mary. And after that she wove a garland for her hair. She pleated it. She plaited it. Of meadowgrass and riverflags, the bulrush and waterweed, and of fallen griefs of weeping willow. Then she made her bracelets and her anklets and her armlets and a jetty amulet for necklace of clicking cobbles and pattering pebbles and rumbledown rubble, richmond and rare, of Irish rhinestones and shellmarble bangles. That done, a dawk of smut to her airy eye, and the lellipos cream to her lippeleens and the pick of the paintbox for her pommettes, from strawbirry reds to extray violates, and she sent her boudeloire maids to His Affluence, Ciliegia Grande and Kirschie Real, with respecks from his missus, seepy and sewery, and a request she might leave him for a minnikin. A call to pay and light a taper, in Brie-on-Arrose, back in a sprizzling. The cock striking mine, the stalls bridely sign, there's Zambosy waiting for me. She orged she wouldn't be half her length away. Then, then, as soon as the lump his back was turned, with her mealiebag slung over her shoulder, Anna Livia, oysterface, out of her basin came.

Describe her! Hustle along, why can't you? Spitz on the iern while it's hot. I wouldn't miss her for the world. Oceans of God, I mussel hear that! Ishekarry and washe toney? What had she on, the little old oddity? How much did she scallop, harness and weights? Here she is, Amnisty Ann! Call her calamity electrifies man.

No electress at all but old Moppa Necessity, mother of injins. I'll tell you now. But you must sit still. Will you hold your peace and listen well to what I am going to say now? It might have been ten or twenty to one of the night of Allclose or the nexth of April when the flip of her hoogly igloo fluttered and out stepped a fairy woman, the dearest little mother ever you saw, nodding around her, all smiles, with ems of embarras and aues to awe, between two ages, a judy queen not up to your
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elb. And look at her sharp and seize her ⁽¹⁰quirkint quirk¹⁰⁾ for the bicker she lives the slicker she grows. Save us and tagus! No more? Why where in ourthe did you ever pick a Lambay chop as big as a battering ram? Ay, you're right. I'm epte to forgetting, like Liviam Liddle did Loveme Long. The height of my hough, I say! She wore a ploughboy's nailstudded clogs, a pair of ploughfields in themselves: a sugarloaf hat with a gaudyquiviry peak and a band of gorse for an arnoment and a hundred streamers dancing off it and a golden pin to pierce it: owlglassy bicycles boggled her eyes: and a fishnetzeveil she had to keep the sun from spoiling her wrinkles: potatorings boucled the loose lobs of her listeners: her nude cuba stockings were salmonspotspeckled: she sported a shimmy of hazegrey tinto that never was fast till it ran in the washing: stout stays, the rivals, lined her length: her bloodorange bockknickers, a two in one garment, showed natural nigger boggers, fancyfastened, free to undo: her blackstripe tan joseph was sequansewn and teddybearlined, with wavy rushgreen epaulettes and a leadown here and there of royal swansruff: a brace of gaspers stuck in her hayrope garters: her civvy codroy coat with alpheubett buttons was boundaried round with a twobar tunnel belt: a fourpenny bit in each pocketside weighed her safe from the blowaway windrush: she had a clothespeg tight astride of her joki's nose and she kept on grinding a sommething quaint in her fiumy mouth: and the rrreke of the fluve of the tail of the gawan of her snuffdrab siouler's skirt trailed ffiffty Irish miles behind her long the road.

Hellsbells, I'm sorry I missed her! Sweet umptyum and nobody fainted. But in whelk of her mouths? Was her naze alight? Everyone that saw her said the dowse little delia looked a bit queer. Lotsy trotsy, mind the poddle! Missus, be good and don't fol in the say! Funny poor frump she must have charred. Kickhams a rummier ever you saw. Making soft mullet's eyes at her boys dobelong. And they crowned her the queen of the may. Of the may? You don't say! Well for her she couldn't see herself.
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I warrant that's why the darling murrayed her mirror. She did? Mersey me! There was a koros of drouthdropping surfacemen,
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boomslanging and plugchewing, fruiteyeing and flowerfeeding, in contemplation of the fluctuation and the undification of her filimentation, lolling and leasing on Lazy Wall by the Jook of Yoick's and as soon as they saw her meander by in her grasswinter's weeds and twigged who was under her deaconess bonnet, Avondale's fish and Clarence's poison, says one to another, Wit-upon-Crutches to Master Bates: Between me and you and the granite we're warming, as round as a hoop, Alp has doped.

But what was the game in her mixed bag? And where in thunder did she plunder? Fore the battle or efter the ball? I want to get it frisk from the soorce. I aubette my beard it's worth while poaching on. Shake it up, do, do! That's a good old son of a ditch! I promise I'll make it worth your while. And I don't mean maybe. Spey me pruth and I'll tale you true.

Well, arondgirond in a waveney line aringarouma she pattered and swung and sidled, dribbling her boulder through narrows of mosses, the diliskydrear on our drier side and the vildevetchvine agin us, curaro here, careero there, not knowing which medway or wheser to strike it, making chattahoochee all to herself, like Santa Claus at the call of the pale and puny, bending to hear for their tiny hearties, her arms encircling Isolabella, then running with reconciled Romus and Remes, then bathing Dirty Hans' spatters with spittle, with a Christmas box apiece for each and every one of her childer, the birthday gifts they dreamt they gave her. The rivulets ran to see, the glashaboys, the pollynooties. Out of the paunshaup on to the pyre. And they all about her, youths and maidens, rickets and riots, like the Smyly boys at their vicereine's levee, chipping her and raising a bit of a jeer or cheer, long live, little Anne, old Anna, high life, every time she'd neb in her culdee sack of rubbish she robbed and reach out her maundy merchandise, stinkers and heelers, laggards and primelads, her furzeborn sons and dribblederry daughters, a thousand and one of them, and wickerpotluck for each of them. For evil and ever. And kiks the buch. A tinker's bann and a barrow to boil his billy for Gipsy Lee: a cartridge of cockaleekie soup for Tommy the Soldier:
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for sulky Pender's acid nephew deltoid drops, curiously strong: a cough and a rattle and wildrose cheeks for poor little Petite MacFarlane: a jigsaw puzzle of needles and pins and blankets and shins between them for Isabel^|10', Jezebel^10'| and Llewelyn Marriage: a brazen nose and pigiron mittens for Johnny Walker Beg: a papal flag of the saints and stripes for Kevineen O'Dea: a puffpuff for Pudge Craig and a nightmarching hare for Toucher Thumb: waterleg and gumboots each for Bully Hayes and Hurricane Hartigan: a prodigal heart and fatted calves for Buck Jones, the pride of Clonliffe: a loaf of bread and a father's early aim for Tim from Skibereen: a jauntingcar for Larry Doolin, the Ballyclee jackeen: a seasick trip on a government ship for Teague O'Flanagan: a louse and trap for Jerry Coyle: slushmincepies for Andy Mackenzie: a hairclip and clackdish for Penceless Peter: that twelve sounds look for G. V. Brooke: a drowned doll for Sister Anne Mortimer: altar falls for Blanchisse's bed: Wildairs' breechies for Magpeg Woffington: for Sue Dot a big eye, for Sam Dash a false step: a snake in clover and a vaticanned vipercatcher's visa for Patsy Presbys: a rise every morning for Standfast Dick and a drop every minute for Stumblestone Davy: scruboak beads for beatified Biddy: two appletweed stools for Eva Mobbely: for Saara Philpot a jordan vale tearjar: a pretty box of Pettyfib's Powder for Eileen Alannah to whiten her teeth and outflash Helen Arhone: a whipping top for Eddy Lawless: for Kitty Coleraine of Butterman's Lane a penny wise for her foolish pitcher: a putty shovel for Terry the Puckaun: a potamus mask for Promoter Dunne: a niester egg with a twicedated shell and a dynamight right for Pavl the Curate:
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a collera morbous for Mann in the Cloack: a starr and girton for Draper and Deane: for Will-of-the-Wisp and Barny-the-Bark two mangolds noble to sweeden their bitters: for Oliver Bound a way in the frey: for Seumas, thought little, a crown he feels big: a tibertine's pile with a Congoswood cross on the back for Sunny Twimjim: a praises be and spare me days for Brian the Bravo: plenty of pity with lashings of lust for Lona Lena Magdalena: for Camilla, Dromilla, Ludmilla, Mamilla, a bucket, a packet, a book and a pillow: for Nancy Shannon a Tuami brooch: for Dora Riparia Hopeandwater a cooling douche and a warmingpan: a pair of Blarney braggs for Wally Meagher: a hairpin slatepencil for Elsie Oram to scratch her toby, doing her best with her volgar fractions: an old age pension for Betty Bellezza: a bag of the blues for Funny Fitz: a Missa pro Messa for Taff de Taff: Jill, the spoon of a girl, for Jack, the broth of a boy: a Rogerson Crusoe Friday fast for Caducus Angelus Rubiconstein: three hundred and sixtysix poplin tyne for revery warp in the weaver's woof for Victor Hugoknot: a stiff steaded rake and good varians
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muck for Kate the Cleaner: a hole in the ballad for Hosty: two dozen of cradles for J. F. X. P. Coppinger: tenpomten on the pop for the daulphins born with five spoiled squibs for Infanta: a letter to last a lifetime for Maggi beyond by the ashpit: the heftiest frozenmeat woman from Lusk to Livienbad for Felim the Ferry: spas and speranza and symposum's syrup for decayed and blind and gouty Gough: a change of naves and joys of ills for Armoricus Tristram Amoor Saint Lawrence: a guillotine shirt for Reuben Redbreast und hempen suspendeats for Brennan on the Moor: an oakanknee for Conditor Sawyer and musquodoboits for Tropical Scott: a C₃ peduncle for Karmalite Kane: a sunless map of the month, including the sword and stamps for Shemus O'Shaun the Post: a jackal with hide for Browne but Nolan: a stonecold shoulder for Donn Joe Vance: all lock and no stable for Honorbright Meretrix: a big drum for Billy Dunboyne: a guiltygoldeny bellows, below me blow me, for Ida Ida and a Hushaby rocker, Elletrouvetout for Who-is-silvier — Where-is-he?: whatever you like to swilly to drink,
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Yuinness or Yennessy, Lagen or Niger, for Festus King and Roaring Peter and Frisky Shorty and Treacle Tom and O. B. Behan and Sully the Thug and Master Magrath and Peter Cloran and O'Delawarr Rossa and Nerone MacPeace and whoever you chance to meet knocking around: and a bladder balloon for Selina Susquehanna Stakelum. But what did she give to Pruda Ward and Katty Kanel and Peggy Quilty and Briery Brosna and Teasy Kieran and Ena Lappin and Muriel Mosel and Susy Camac and Melissa Brandogue and Flora Ferns and Fauna Fox-Goodman and Una and Bina and Trina La Mesme and Philomena O'Farrell and Irmak Elly and Josephine Foyle and Snakeshead Lily and Fountainoy Laura and Mary Xavier Agnes Daisy Francis de Sales MacCall? She gave them every mother's daughter a moonflower and a bloodleaf. So on Izzy, her shamemaid, love shone befond her tears as from Shem, her penmight, life past befoul his prime.

My colonial, wardha bagful! That's what you may call a tale of a tub. All that and more under one crinoline envelope if you dare to break the porkbarrel seal. No wonder they'd run from her pison plague. Throw us your hudson soap for the honour of Clane! The wee taste the water left. I'll raft it back first thing in the marne. Ay, and don't forget the reckitts I lent you. You've all the swirls your side of the current. Well, am I to blame for that if I have? Who said you're to blame for that if you have? Only snuffers'
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cornets drifts my way that the cracka dvine chucks out of his cassock, with her estheryear's marsh narcissus to make him recant his vanitty fair. Foul strips of his Chinook's bible I do be reading, dodwell disgustered but chickled with chuckles. E Senior ga dito: Faciasi Omo! E Omo fu fò. Ho! Ho! E Senior ga dito: Faciasi Hidamo! E Hidamo se ga facessà. Ha! Ha! And Die Windermere
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Dichter and Lefanu (Sheridan's) Old House by the Coachyard and Mill (J.) On Woman with Ditto on the Floss. O, a swamp for your Miller and a stone for his flossies! I know how racy they move his wheel. My hands are blawcauld between isker and soda like that piece of pattern chayney there, lying below. Or where is it? Lying beside the sedge I saw it. Hoangho, my sorrow, I've lost it! With that turbary water who could see? But O, gihon! I love a gabber. I could listen to more and mauve again. Rain onder river. Flies do your float. Thick is the life for mere.

Well, you know or don't you kennet or haven't I told you every story has an end and that's the he and the she of it. Look, look, the dusk is growing. Fieluhr? Filou! What age is at? It saon is late. 'Tis endless now since I or anyone last saw Waterhouse's clock. They took it asunder, I heard them say. When will they reassemble it? O, my back, my back, my back! I'd want to go to Aches-les-Pains. Wring out the clothes! Wring in the dew! Godavari, vert the showers! And grant of Thy grace! Aman. Will we spread them here now? Ay, we will. Spread on your bank and I'll spread mine on mine. It's what I'm doing. Spread! It's churning chill. Der went is rising. I'll lay a few stones on the hostel sheets. A man and his bride embraced between them. Else I'd have sprinkled and folded them only. And I'll tie my butcher's apron here. It's suety yet. The strollers will pass it by. Six shifts, ten kerchiefs, nine to hold to the fire and this for the code, the convent napkins, twelve, one baby's shawl. Where are all her childer now? In kingdome gone or power to come or gloria be to them farther? Allalivial, allalluvial! Some here, more no more, more again lost to the stranger. I've heard tell that same brooch of the Shannons was married into a family in Spain. And all the Dunders de Dunnes in Markland's Vineland beyond Brendan's herring pool takes number nine in yangsee's hats. And one of Biddy's
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beads went bobbing lonesome till she rounded up last histereve with a marigold and a cobbler's candle in a side strain of a main drain of a manzinahurries off Bachelor's Walk. But all that's left to the last of the Meaghers in the loop of the years prefixed and between is
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one kneebuckle and two hooks in the front. Do you tell me that now? I do, in troth. And didn't you hear it a deluge of times? You deed, you deed! I need, I need! It's that irrawaddyng I've stuck in my aars. It all but husheth the lethest sound. Oronoko! What's your trouble? Is that the great Finnleader himself in his joakimono on his statue riding the high horse there forehengist? Father of Otters, it is himself! Yonne there? Is it that? On Fallareen Common? You're thinking of Astley's Amphitheayter where the bobby restrained you making sugarstuck pouts to the ghostwhite horse of the Peppers. Throw the cobwebs from your eyes, woman, and spread your washing proper. It's well I know your sort of slop. Ireland sober is Ireland stiff. Your prayers. Were you lifting your elbow, tell us, glazy cheeks, in Conway's Carrigacurra canteen? Was I what, hobbledyhips? Amn't I up since the damp dawn with Corrigan's pulse and varicose veins, soaking and bleaching boiler rags, and sweating cold, a widow like me, for to deck my tennis champion son, the laundryman with the lavender flannels? You won your limpopo limp from the husky hussars when Collar and Cuffs was heir to the town and your slur gave the stink to Carlow. Holy Scamander! I saw it again! Near the golden falls. Icis on us! Seints of light! There! Subdue your noise, you poor creature! What is it but a blackburry growth or the dwyergray ass them four old codgers owns. Are you meanam Tarpey and Lyons and Gregory? I mean now, thank all, the four of them, and the roar of them, that draves that stray in the mist and old Johnny MacDougal along with
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them. Is that the Poolbeg flasher beyant or a fireboat coasting nigh the Kishtna or a glow I behold within a hedge or my Garry come back from the Indes? Wait till the honeying of the lune, love! Die, eve, little eve, die! We see that wonder in your eye. We'll meet again, we'll part once more. The spot I'll seek if the hour you'll find. My chart shines high where the blue milk's upset. Forgivemequick, I'm going! And you, pluck your watch, forgetmenot. My sights are swimming thicker on me by the shadows to this place. I'll sow home slowly now by own way, moyvalley way. Tow will I too, rathmine.

Ah, but she was the queer old skeowsha anyhow, Anna Livia, trinklytoes! And sure he was the quare old buntz too, Dear Dirty Dumpling, foostherfather of fingalls and fotthergills! Gammer and gaffer, we're all their gangsters. Hadn't he seven dams to wive him? And every dam had her seven
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crutches. And every crutch had its seven hues. And each hue had a differing cry. Sudds for me and supper for you and the doctor's bill for Joe John. Before! Before! He married his markets, cheap by foul, I know, like any Etrurian Catholic Heathen, in their pinky limony creamy birnies and their turkiss indienne mauves. But at milkidmass who was the spouse? Then all that was was fair. In Elvenland! Teems of times and happy returns. The same anew. Ordovico or viricordo. Anna was, Livia is, Plurabelle's to be. Northmen's thing made southfolk's place but howmulty plurators made eachone in person? Latin me that, my trinity scholard, out of ⁽¹⁰the eure¹⁰⁾ sanscreed into ⁽¹⁰the oure¹⁰⁾ eryan. Hircus Civis Eblanensis! He had buckgoat paps on him, soft ones for orphans. Ho, Lord! Twins of his bosom. Lord save us! And ho! Hey? What all men. Hot? His tittering daughters of. Whawk?

Can't hear with the waters of. The chittering waters of. Flittering bats, fieldmice bawk talk. Ho! Are you not gone ahome? What Tom Malone? Can't hear with bawk of bats, all the liffeying waters of. Ho, talk save us! My foos woon't moos. I feel as old as yonder elm. A tale told of Shaun or Shem? All Livia's daughtersons. Dark hawks hear us! Night! Night! My ho head halls. I feel
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as heavy as yonder stone. Tell me of John or Shaun? Who were Shem and Shaun the living sons or daughters of? Night now! Tell me, tell me, tell me, elm! Nighty night! Tell me tale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of, hitherandthithering waters of. Night!