Fair copy, July 1923, II.2§7 draft level 1

MS British Library 47480 269 Draft details

{ms, 269}

So anyhow after that to wind up that long to be chronicled get together day, the anniversary of his first holy communion, after that same barbecue beanfeast was all over poor old hospitable King Roderic O'Conor, the paramount chief polemarch and last preelectric King of all Ireland who was anything you like between fiftyfour and fiftyfive years of age at the time after the socalled last supper he greatly gave in his umbrageous house of the hundred bottles or at least he wasn't actually the last king of all Ireland for the time being for the jolly good reason that he was still such as he was the |1eminent1| King of all Ireland after the last King of all Ireland, the old top that went before him, Art MacMurrough Kavanagh, now of parts unknown, that generous soul that put a poached fowl in the poor man's pot before he took to his pallyass |1with weeping eczema1| for better and worse until he went and died nevertheless the year the sugar was scarce and himself down to three cows that was meat and drink and dogs and washing to him 'tis good cause we have to remember it anyhow what did he do poor old Roderic O'Conor the auspicious waterproof King monarch of all Ireland when he was all alone by himself in that grand old historic pile after all of them had all gone off with themselves on footback a tree's length from the longest ways out down the switchbackward road, the unimportant Parthalonians with the Firbolgs and the Tuatha de Danaan googs and the rest of the notmuchers that he didn't care a |1royal1| spit out of his mouth about well what do you think he did but faix he just went heeltapping through the kneedeep winespilth and weevily popcorks round his own right royal round rollicking topers' table with his |1old1| Roderic Random pullon hat at a cant on him, the body, you'd pity him, the way the world is, poor he, the heart of Midleinster and the King of them all, overwhelmed with ruin |1like a sponge out of water1| and singing to himself through his old tears broken by regal belches I've a terrible errible lot to do today todo toderribleday well what did he do at all, His |1Most1| Exuberant Majesty King Roderic O'Conor but |1arrah1| bedamnbut he finalised by lowering his woolly throat with the wonderful midnight thirst was on him as keen as mustard and leave it if he didn't suck up sure enough like a Trojan in some particular cases with the assistance of his venerated tongue one after the other in strict order of rotation whatever surplus rotgut sorra much |1that the lousy lazers left was left by the lousy lazers1| of maltknights and beerchurls in the different bottoms of the various replenquished drinking vessels utensils left there behind them by the departed honourable homegoers and other slygrogger suburbanites such as it was no matter whether it was chateaubottled Guinness's or Phoenix Brewery stoutº it was or John Jameson and Sons or Roob Coccola or for the matter of that O'Connell's famous old Dublin ale that he wanted like hell as a fallback of several different quantities and qualities amounting in all to I should say considerably more than the better part of a gill or naggin of imperial dry and liquid measure.