Finnegans Wake Book 1 Chapter 1 as poetry

 … riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, 

from swerve of shore to bend of bay, 

brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation 

back to Howth Castle and Environs.

—————————————————

    Sir Tristram, violer d'amores, 

fr'over the short sea, 

had pass-encore re-arrived from North Armorica 

on this side the scraggy isthmus of Europe Minor 

to wielder-fight his pen-isolate war: 

norhad top-sawyer’s rocks by the stream Oconee 

exaggerated themselse to Laurens County's gorgios 

while they went doublin their mumper all the time: 

nor avoice from afire bellowsed mishe mishe 

to tauf-tauf thuart-peatrick: 

not yet, though venissoon after, 

had a kids-cad buttended a bland old isaac: 

not yet, though all's fair in vanessy, 

were sosie sesthers wroth with twone nath-and-joe. 

    Rot a peck of pa's malt had Jhem or Shen brewed by arclight 

and rory end to the reggin-brow 

was to be seen ringsome on the aquaface.

 ————————————————

   The fall 

(baba-badal-gharagh-takam-minarronn-

konn-bronn-tonner-ronn-tuonn-thunntro-

varr-houn-awn-skawn-too-hoo-hoorden-enthur-nuk!) 

of a once wallstrait oldparr is retaled 

early in bed and later on life 

down through all christian minstrelsy. 

    The great fall of the offwall entailed at such short notice 

the pftjschute of Finnegan, erse solid man, 

that the humpty-hillhead of humself 

prumptly sends an unquiring one well to the west 

in quest of his tumpty-tum-toes: 

and their up-turn-pike-point-and-place 

is at the knock out in the park 

where oranges have been laid to rust upon the green 

since devlinsfirst loved livvy. (p4)

————————————————-

    What clashes here of wills gen wonts, 

oystry-gods gaggin fishy-gods! 

    Brékkek Kékkek Kékkek Kékkek! 

    Kóax Kóax Kóax! 

    Ualu Ualu Ualu! 

    Quaouauh! 

    Where the Baddelaries partisans are still out 

to mathmaster Malachus Micgranes 

and the Verdons catapelting the camibalistics 

out of the Whoyte-boyce of Hoodie-Head. 

    Assiegates and boomering-stroms. 

    Sod's brood, be me fear 

    Sanglorians, save! 

    Arms apeal with larms, appalling. 

    Killykill-killy: a toll, a toll. 

    What chance cuddleys, what cashels aired and ventilated! 

    What bidi-me-to-loves sinduced by what tego-te-tabsolvers! 

    What true feeling for their's hayair with what strawng voice of false jiccup! 

    O here here how hoth sprowled met the duskt the father of fornicationists 

but, (O my shining stars and body!) 

how hath fane-spanned most high heaven 

the sky-sign of soft advertisement! 

    But was iz? Iseut? 

    Ere were sewers? 

    The oaks of ald now they lie in peat yet elms leap where askes lay. 

    Phall if you but will, rise you must: 

and none so soon either 

shall the pharce for the nunce come to a setdown secular phoenish.

——————————————

    Bygmester Finnegan, of the Stuttering Hand, freemen's maurer, 

lived in the broadest way immarginable 

in his rushlit too-far-back for messuages 

before joshuan judges had given us numbers 

or Helviticus committed deuteronomy 

(one yeasty-day he sternely struxk his tete in a tub 

for to watsch the future of his fates 

but ere he swiftly stook it out again, 

by the might of moses, 

the very water was eviparated 

and all the guenneses had met their exodus 

so that ought to show you what a pentschan-jeuchy chap he was!) 

and during mighty odd years this man of hod, cement and edifices 

in Toper's Thorp 

piled buildung supra buildung 

pon the banks for the livers by the Soangso. 

    He addle liddle phifie Annie ugged the little craythur. 

    Wither hayre in honds tuck up your part inher. 

    Oft-while balbulous, mithre ahead, 

with goodly trowel in grasp 

and ivoroiled overalls which he habit-acularly fond-seed, 

like Haroun Childeric Eggeberth 

he would caligulate by multiplicables the alltitude and malltitude 

until he see-saw by neatlight of the liquor wheretwin 'twas born, 

his round-head staple of other days 

to rise in undress maisonry upstanded (joy-grantit!), 

a waal-worth of a skyer-scape 

of most eyeful hoyth entowerly, 

erigenating from (p5)

next to nothing and celescalating the himals and all, 

hier-architect-i-tip-ti-top-loftical, 

with a burning bush abob off its bauble-top 

and with larrons o'toolers clittering up 

and tombles a'buckets clottering down.

——————————————-

    Of the first was he to bare arms and a name: 

Wassaily Boos-laeugh of Riesen-geborg. 

    His crest of huroldry, 

in vert with ancillars, troublant, argent, 

a hegoak, pour-suivant, 

horrid, horned. 

    His scutschum fessed, with archers strung, 

helio, of the second. 

    Hootch is for husband-man handling his hoe. 

    Ho-ho-ho-ho, Mister Finn, you're going to be Mister Finnagain! 

    Comeday morm and, O, you're vine! 

    Sendday's eve and, ah, you're vinegar! 

    Hahahaha, Mister Funn, you're going to be fined again!

———————————————-

    What then agentlike brought about that tragoady thundersday 

this municipal sin business? 

    Our cubehouse still rocks as earwitness to the thunder of his arafatas 

but we hear also through successive ages 

that shebby choruysh of unkalified muzzlen-i-miissile-hims 

that would black-guardise the whitestone ever hurtle-turtled out of heaven. 

    Stay us wherefore in our search for tighteousness, 

O Sustainer, 

what time we rise and when we take up to toothmick 

and before we lump down upown our leatherbed 

and in the night and at the fading of the stars ! 

    For a nod to the nabir is better than wink to the wabsanti. 

    Other-ways wesways like that provost scoffing 

bedoueen the jebel and the jpysian sea. 

    Crop-herb the crunch-bracken shall decide. 

    Then we'll know if the feast is a flyday. 

    She has a gift of seek on site and she all-casually ansars helpers, 

the dreamy-deary. 

    Heed! Heed ! 

    It may half been a missfired brick, 

as some say, 

or it mought have been due to a collupsus of his back promises, 

as others looked at it. 

(There extand by now one thousand and one stories, all told, of the same). 

    But so sore did abe ite ivvy's holired abbles, 

(what with the wallhall's horrors 

of rolls-rights, carhacks, stonengens, 

kisstvanes, tram-trees, fargo-bawlers, 

auto-kinotons, hippo-hobbilies, 

street-fleets, tourn-in-taxes, mega-phoggs, 

circuses and wards-moats and basil-i-kerks and aero-pagods 

and the hoyse and the jolly-brool 

and the peeler in the coat 

and the mecklen-burk bitch bite at his ear 

and the merlin-burrow burrocks 

and his fore old porecourts, 

the bore the more,  

and his (p6) blightblack working-stacks at twelvepins a dozen 

and the noobi-busses sleighding along Safetyfirst Street 

and the derry-jellybies snooping around Tell-No-Tailors' Corner 

and the fumes and the hopes 

and the strupithump of his ville's indigenous rome-keepers, 

home-sweepers, dome-creepers, 

thurum and thurum in fancymud murumd 

and all the uproor from all the aufroofs, 

a roof for may and a reef for hugh butt under his bridge suits tony) 

wan warning Phill filt tippling full. 

    His howd feeled heavy, his hoddit did shake. 

(There was a wall of course in erection) 

    Dimb! He stottered from the latter. 

    Damb! he was dud. 

    Dumb! 

    Mastabatoom, mastabadtomm, when a mon merries his lute is all long. 

    For whole the world to see.

——————————————

    Shize? I should shee! 

    Macool, Macool, orra whyi deed ye diie? 

of a trying thirstay mournin? 

    Sobs they sighdid at Fillagain’s chrissormiss wake, 

all the hoolivans of the nation, 

prostrated in their consternation 

and their duodisimally profusive plethora of ululation. 

    There was plumbs and grumes and cheriffs 

and citherers and raiders and cinemen too. 

    And the all gianed in with the shout-most shoviality. 

    Agog and magog and the round of them agrog. 

    To the continuation of that celebration until Han-and-hunigan’s extermination! 

    Some in kinkin corass, more, kankan keening. 

    Belling him up and filling him down. 

    He's stiff but he's steady is Priam Olim ! 

    'Twas he was the dacent gaylabouring youth. 

    Sharpen his pillowscone, tap up his bier! 

    E'erawhere in this whorl would ye hear sich a din again? 

    With their deepbrow fundigs and the dusty fidelios. 

    They laid him brawdawn alanglast bed. 

    With a bockalips of finisky fore his feet. 

    And a barrow-load of guenesis hoer his head. 

    Tee the tootal of the fluid hang the twoddle of the fuddled, O !

        Hurrah, 

there is but young gleve for the owl globe wheels in view 

which is tautaulogically the same thing. 

    Well, Him a being so on the flounder of his bulk 

like an overgrown babeling, 

let wee peep, see, at Hom, 

well, see peegee ought he ought, platterplate. 

    E Hum ! 

    From Shopalist to Bailywick 

or from ashtun to baronoath 

or from Buy-the-banks to Round-the-head 

or from the foot of the bill to ireglint's eye he calmly exten-so-lies. 

    And all the way (a horn!) from fiord to fjell 

his baywinds' o-bo-boes shall wail him (p7)

rock-bound (hoahoahoah!) in swim-swam-swum 

and all the livvy-long night, 

the dell-dale dalppling night, 

the night of bluery-bells, 

her flitta-flute in tricky trochees 

(O carina! O carina!) wake him. 

    With her issa-van essa-vans 

and her patter-jack-martins about all them inns and ouses. 

    Tilling a teel of a tum, 

telling a toll of a teary turty Taubling. 

    Grace before Glutton. 

    For what we are, gifs à gross if we are, about to believe. 

    So pool the begg and pass the kish for crawsake. 

    Omen. 

    So sigh us. 

    Grampupus is fallen down but grinny sprids the boord. 

    Whase on the joint of a desh? 

    Fin-foe-fom the Fush. 

    Whase be his baken head? 

    A loaf of Singpantry's Kennedy bread. 

    And whase hitched to the hop in his tayle? 

    A glass of Danu U'Dunnell's foamous olde Dobbelin ayle. 

    But, lo, as you would quaffoff his fraudstuff 

and sink teeth through that pyth of a flower-white bodey 

behold of him as behemoth 

for he is noewhemoe. 

    Finiche! 

    Only a fadograph of a yestern scene. 

    Almost rubicund Salmo-salar, 

ancient from-out the ages of the Agape-monides, 

he is smolten in our mist, 

woe-be-canned and packt away. 

    So that meal's dead off for summan, schlook, schlice and good-rid-hirring.

————————————————

    Yet may we not see still the bronto-ichthyan form outlined a-slumbered, 

even in our own nighttime by the sedge of the troutling stream 

that Bronto loved and Brunto has a lean on. 

    Hic cubat edilis. Apud libertinam parvulam. 

    What-if she be in flags or flitters, 

reekie-rags or sundye-chosies, 

with a mint of mines or beggar a pinny-weight. 

    Arrah, sure, we all love little Anny Ruiny, 

or, we mean to say, lovelittle Anna Rayiny, 

when unda her brella, 

mid piddle med puddle, 

she ninny-goes nanny-goes nancing by. 

    Yoh! Brontolone slaaps, yoh snoores. 

    Upon Benn Heather, in Seeple Isout too. 

    The cranic head on him, caster of his reasons, 

peer yuthner in yondmist. 

    Whooth? 

    His clay feet, swarded in verdigrass, 

stick up starck where he last fell-on’em, 

by the mund of the magazine wall, 

where our maggy seen all, 

with her sisterin shawl. 

    While over against this belles' alliance beyind Ill Sixty, 

ollollowed ill! 

bagsides of the fort, 

bom, tarabom, tarabom, 

lurk the ombushes, 

the site of the lyffing-in-wait of the upjock and hockums. 

    Hence 

when the clouds roll by, jamey, 

a prouds-eye view is (p8) enjoyable of our mounding's mass, 

now Wall-in-stone national museum, 

with, in some greenish distance, 

the charmful water-loose country 

and the two quite-white villagettes 

who hear show of themselves so giggle-somes 

minxt the folly-ages, the prettilees! 

    Penetrators are permitted into the museomound free. 

    Welsh and the Paddy Patkinses, one shelenk! 

    Redismembers invalids of old guard find pousse-pousse poussey-pram 

to sate the sort of their butt. 

    For her passkey supply to the janitrix, the mistress Kathe. Tip.

—————————————-

    This the way to the museyroom. 

    Mind your hats goan in! 

    Now yiz are in the Willingdone Museyroom. 

    This is a Prooshious gunn. 

    This is a ffrinch. Tip. 

    This is the flag of the Prooshious, the Cap and Soracer. 

    This is the bullet that byng the flag of the Prooshious. 

    This is the ffrinch that fire on the Bull that bang the flag of the Prooshious. 

    Saloos the Crossgunn! Up with your pike and fork! Tip. 

(Bullsfoot! Fine!) 

    This is the triple-won hat of Lipoleum. Tip. 

    Lipoleum-hat. 

    This is the Willingdone on his same white harse, the Cokenhape. 

    This is the big Sraughter Willingdone, 

grand and magentic in his goldtin spurs 

and his ironed dux 

and his quarterbrass woodyshoes 

and his magnate's gharters 

and his bangkok's best 

and goliar's goloshes

and his pullupon-easyan wartrews.

    This is his big wide harse. Tip. 

    This is the three lipoleum boyne grouching down in the living detch. 

    This is an in-im-y-skilling inglis, this is a scotcher grey, this is a davy, stooping. 

    This is the bog lipoleum mordering the lipoleum beg. 

    A Gallawghurs argaumunt. 

    This is the petty lipoleum boy that was nayther bag nor bug. 

    Assaye, assaye! 

    Touchole Fitz Tuomush. Dirty MacDyke. And Hairy O'Hurry. 

    All of them arminus-varminus. 

    This is Delian alps. 

    This is Mont Tivel, this is Mont Tipsey, this is the Grand Mons Injun. 

    This is the crimea-line of the alps hooping to shelter-shock the three lipoleums. 

    This is the jinnies with their legahorns 

feinting to read in their hand-made’s book of stralegy 

while making their war undisides the Willingdone. 

    The jinnies is a cooin her hand 

and the jinnies is a ravin her hair 

and the Willingdone git the band up. 

    This is big Willingdone mormorial tallow-scoop Wounder-worker 

obscides on the flanks of the jinnies. 

    Sexcaliber hrosspower. Tip. 

    This (p9) me Belchum sneaking his phillippy 

out of his most Awful Grimmest Sunshat Cromwelly. 

Looted. 

This is the jinnies’ hastings dispatch for to irrigate the Willingdone. 

Dispatch in thin red lines cross the shortfront of me Belchum. 

Yaw, yaw, yaw! 

Leaper Orthor. 

Fear siecken! Fieldgaze thy tiny frow. 

Hugacting. Nap. 

That was the tictacs of the jinnies for to fontannoy the Willingdone. 

Shee, shee, shee! The jinnies is jillous agincourting all the lipoleums. 

And the lipoleums is gonn boycottoncrezy onto the one Willingdone. 

And the Willingdone git the band up. 

This is bode Belchum, bonnet to busby, 

breaking his secred word with a ball up his ear to the Willingdone. 

This is the Willingdone’s hurold dispitchback. 

Dispitch desployed on the regions rare of me Belchum. 

Salamangra! 

Ayi, ayi, ayi! 

Cherry jinnies. 

Figtreeyou! 

Damn fairy ann, Voutre. 

Willingdone. 

That was the first joke of Willingdone, tic for tac. 

Hee, hee, hee! 

This is me Belchum in his twelvemile cowchooks, 

weet, tweet and stampforth foremost, 

footing the camp for the jinnies. 

Drink a sip, drankasup, 

for he’s as sooner buy a guinness than he’d stale store stout. 

This is Rooshious balls. 

This is a ttrinch. 

This is mistletropes. 

This is Canon Futter with the popynose.  After his hundred days’ indulgence. 

This is the blessed. Tarra’s widdars! 

This is jinnies in the bonny bawn blooches. 

This is lipoleums in the rowdy howses. 

This is the Willingdone, by the splinters of Cork, order fire.  

Tonnerre! (Bullsear! Play!) 

This is camelry, this is floodens, 

this is the solphereens in action, 

this is their mobbily, 

this is panickburns. 

Almeidagad! Arthiz too loose! 

This is Willingdone cry. Brum! Brum! Cumbrum! 

This is jinnies cry. Underwetter! Goat strip Finnlambs! 

This is jinnies rinning away to their ousterlists dowan a bunkersheels. 

With a nip nippy nip and a trip trippy trip so airy. 

For their heart’s right there. Tip. 

This is me Belchum’s tinkyou tankyou silvoor plate 

for citchin the crapes in the cool of his canister. 

Poor the pay! 

This is the bissmark of the marathon merry of the jinnies they left behind them. 

This is the Willingdone branlish his same marmorial tallowscoop Sophy-Key-Po 

for his royal divorsion on the rinnaway jinnies. 

Gambariste della porca! Dalaveras fimmieras! 

This is the pettiest (p10) of the lipoleums, Toffeethief, 

that spy on the Willingdone from his big white harse, the Capeinhope. 

Stonewall Willingdone is an old maxy montrumeny. 

Lipoleums is nice hung bushellors. 

This is hiena hinnessy laughing alout at the Willingdone. 

This is lipsyg dooley krieging the funk from the hinnessy. 

This is the hinndoo Shimar Shin between the dooley boy and the hinnessy. Tip. 

This is the wixy old Willingdone 

picket up the half of the threefoiled hat of lipoleums 

fromoud of the bluddle filth. 

This is the hinndoo waxing ranjymad for a bombshoob. 

This is the Willingdone 

hanking the half of the hat of lipoleums up the tail 

on the buckside of his big white harse. Tip. 

That was the last joke of Willingdone. 

Hit, hit, hit! 

This is the same white harse of the Willingdone, Culpenhelp, 

waggling his tailoscrupp 

with the half of a hat of lipoleums 

to insoult on the hinndoo seeboy. 

Hney, hney, hney! 

(Bullsrag! Foul!) 

This is the seeboy, madrashattaras, upjump and pumpim, 

cry to the Willingdone: Ap Pukkaru! Pukka Yurap! 

This is the Willingdone, bornstable ghentleman, 

tinders his maxbotch to the cursigan Shimar Shin. 

Basucker youstead! 

This is the dooforhim seeboy 

blow the whole of the half of the hat of lipoleums 

off of the top of the tail on the back of his big wide harse. Tip 

(Bullseye! Game!) 

How Copenhagen ended. 

This way the museyroom. 

Mind your boots goan out.

——————————————

Phew!

———————————

What a warm time we were in there 

but how keling is here the airabouts! 

We nowhere she lives but you mussna tell annaone 

for the lamp of Jig-a-Lanthern! 

It’s a candlelittle houthse of a month and one windies. 

Downadown, High Downadown. 

And nummered quaintlymine. 

And such reasonable weather too! 

The wagrant wind’s awalt’zaround the piltdowns 

and on every blasted knollyrock 

(if you can spot fifty I spy four more) 

there’s that gnarlybird ygathering, 

a runalittle, doalittle, preealittle, pouralittle, wipealittle, 

kicksalittle, severalittle, eatalittle, whinealittle, 

kenalittle, helfalittle, pelfalittle gnarlybird. 

A verytableland of bleakbardfields! 

Under his seven wrothschields lies one, Lumproar. 

His glav toside him. 

Skud ontorsed. 

Our pigeons pair are flewn for northcliffs. (p11)

The three of crows have flapped it southenly, 

kraaking of de baccle to the kvarters of that sky 

whence triboos answer; Wail, ’tis well! 

She niver comes out when Thon’s on shower 

or when Thon’s flash with his Nixy girls 

or when Thon’s blowing toomcracks down the gaels of Thon. 

No nubo no! Neblas on you liv! 

Her would be too moochy afreet. 

Of Burymeleg and Bind-me-rolling-eyes and all the deed in the woe. 

Fe fo fom! 

She jist does hopes till byes will be byes. 

Here, and it goes on to appear now, she comes, 

a peacefugle, a parody’s bird, a peri potmother, 

a pringlpik in the ilandiskippy, 

with peewee and powwows in beggybaggy on her bickybacky 

and a flick flask fleckflinging its pixylighting pacts’ huemeramybows, 

picking here, pecking there, pussypussy plunderpussy. 

But it’s the armitides toonigh, militopucos, 

and toomourn we wish for a muddy kissmans to the minutia workers 

and there’s to be a gorgeups truce for happinest childher everwere. 

Come nebo me and suso sing the day we sallybright. 

She’s burrowed the coacher’s headlight the better to pry 

(who goes cute goes siocur and shoos aroun) 

and all spoiled goods go into her nabsack: 

curtrages and rattlin buttins, 

nappy spattees and flasks of all nations, 

clavicures and scampulars, 

maps, keys and woodpiles of haypennies 

and moonled brooches with bloodstaned breeks in em, 

boaston night-garters and masses of shoesets 

and nickelly nacks and foder allmicheal 

and a lugly parson of cates 

and howitzer muchears 

and midgers and maggets, 

ills and ells 

with loffs of toffs 

and pleures of bells 

and the last sigh that come fro the hart (bucklied!) 

and the fairest sin the sunsaw (that’s cearc!). 

With Kiss. Kiss Criss. Cross Criss. Kiss Cross. 

Undo lives ’end. Slain.

————————————————

How bootifull and how truetowife of her, 

when strengly forebidden, 

to steal our historic presents from the past postpropheticals 

so as to will make us all lordy heirs and ladymaidesses 

of a pretty nice kettle of fruit. 

She is livving in our midst of debt 

and laffing through all plores for us 

(her birth is uncontrollable), 

with a naperon for her mask 

and her sabboes kickin arias 

(so sair! so solly!) 

if yous ask me and I saack you. 

Hou! Hou! 

Gricks may rise and Troysirs fall 

(there being two sights for ever a picture) (p12)

for in the byways of high improvidence 

that’s what makes lifework leaving 

and the world’s a cell for citters to cit in. 

Let young wimman run away with the story 

and let young min talk smooth behind the butteler’s back. 

She knows her knight’s duty while Luntum sleeps. 

Did ye save any tin? says he. 

Did I what? with a grin says she. 

And we all like a marriedann because she is mercenary. 

Though the length of the land lies under liquidation (floote!) 

and there’s nare a hairbrow nor an eyebush 

on this glaubrous phace of Herrschuft Whatarwelter 

she’ll loan a vesta and hire some peat 

and sarch the shores her cockles to heat 

and she’ll do all a turfwoman can to piff the business on. 

Paff. 

To puff the blaziness on. 

Poffpoff. 

And even if Humpty shell fall frumpty times as awkward again 

in the beards-boo-soloom of all our grand remonstrancers 

there’ll be iggs for the brekkers come to mournhim, 

sunny side up with care. 

So true is it that therewhere’s a turnover the tay is wet too 

and when you think you ketch sight of a hind 

make sure but you’re cocked by a hin.

————————————-

    Then as she is on her behaviourite job of quainance bandy, 

fruting for firstlings and taking her tithe, 

we may take our review of the two mounds 

to see nothing of the himples here as at else-where, 

by sixes and sevens, 

like so many heegills and collines, 

sitton aroont, scent-breeched and some-pot-reek, 

in their swisha-wish satins and their taffe-taffe tights, 

playing Wharton's Folly, 

at a treepurty on the planko in the purk. 

    Stand up, mickos! Make strake for minnas! 

    By order, Nicholas Proud. 

    We may see and hear nothing if we choose 

of the short-legged bergins off Cork-hill 

or the bergamoors of Arbour-hill 

or the berga-gambols of Summer-hill 

or the bergin-cellies of Misery-hill 

or the country-bossed bergones of Constitution-hill 

though every crowd has its several tones 

and every trade has its clever mechanics 

and each harmonical has a point of its own, 

Olaf's on the rise 

and Ivor’s on the lift 

and Sitric's place's between them. 

    But all they are all there scraping along 

to sneeze out a likelihood 

that will solve and salve life's robulous rebus, 

hopping round his middle like kippers on a griddle, O, 

as he lays dormont 

from the macroborg of Holdhard to the microbirg of Pied de Poudre.  

    Behove this (p13) sound of Irish sense. Really? 

    Here English might be seen. Royally? 

    One sovereign punned to petery pence. Regally? 

    The silence speaks the scene. Fake!

————————————————

    So This Is Dyoublong?

    Hush! Caution ! Echoland !

—————————————————-

    How charmingly exquisite! 

    It reminds you of the outwashed engravure 

that we used to be blurring on the blotchwall of his innkempt house. 

    Used they? 

(I am sure that tiring chabel-shoveller with the mujikal chocolat box, 

Miry Mitchel, is listening) 

    I say, 

the remains of the outworn gravemure 

where used to be blurried the Ptollmens of the Incabus. 

    Used we? 

(He is only pretendant to be stugging at the jubalee harp 

from a second existed lishener, Fiery Farrelly.) 

    It is well known. 

    Lokk for himself and see the old butte new. 

    Dbln. W. K. O. O. 

    Hear? 

    By the mauso-lime wall. 

    Fimfim fimfim. 

    With a grand funferall. 

    Fumfum fum-fum. 

    'Tis optophone which ontophanes. 

    List! 

    Wheatstone’s magic lyer. 

    They will be tuggling foriver. 

    They will be lichening for allof. 

    They will be pretumbling forover. 

    The harpsdischord shall be theirs for ollaves.

———————————————————-

    Four things therefore, 

saith our herodotary Mammon Lujius in his grand old historiorum, 

wrote near Boriorum, 

bluest book in baile's annals, 

f t. in Dyffinarsky ne'er sall fail 

til heather-smoke and cloud-weed Eire's ile sall pall. 

And here now they are, the fear of um. 

T. Totities! 

Unum. (Adar.) A bulbenboss surmounted upon an alderman. 

Ay, ay! 

Duum. (Nizam.) A shoe on a puir old wobban. 

Ah, ho! 

Triom. (Tamuz.) An auburn mayde, o’brine a'bride, to be desarted. 

Adear, adear! 

Quodlibus. (Marchessvan.) A penn no weightier nor a polepost. 

And so. And all. 

(Succoth.)

—————————————————-

    So, how idlers' wind turning pages on pages, 

as innocens with anaclete 

play popeye antipop, 

the leaves of the living in the boke of the deeds, 

annals of themselves timing the cycles of events grand and national, 

bring fassilwise to pass how.

———————————————————-

    1132 A.D.    Men like to ants or emmets wondern upon a groot hwide Whallfisk which lay in a Runnel. 

Blubby wares upat Ublanium.

 ————————————————-

   566 A.D.     On Baalfire's night of this year 

after deluge 

a crone that (p14) hadde a wickered Kish 

for to hale dead tunes from the bog look-it 

under the blay of her Kish 

as she ran for to sothis-feige her cowrie-osity 

and be me sawl but she found hersell sackvulle of swart goody quicken-shoon ant small illigant brogues, so rich in sweat.

Blurry works at Hurdlesford.

———————————————————   

(Silent.)

———————————————

    566 A.D.     At this time it fell out that a brazenlockt damsel grieved

(sobralasolas!) because that Puppette her minion was ravisht of her

by the ogre Puropeus Pious. 

Bloody wars in Bally-augha-clee-agh-bally.

————————————————-

    1132. A.D.     Two sons at an hour were born 

until a goodman and his hag. 

These sons called themselves Caddy and Primas.

Primas was a santryman and drilled all decent people. 

Caddy went to Winehouse and wrote o peace a farce. 

Blotty words for Dublin.

——————————————

Somewhere, parently, 

in the ginnandgo gap 

between antediluvious and annadominant 

the copyist must have fled with his scroll. 

The billy flood rose 

or an elk charged him 

or the sultrup worldwright from the excelsissimost empyrean 

(bolt, in sum) earthspake 

or the Dannamen gallous banged pan the bliddy duran. 

A scribicide then and there is led off under old’s code 

with some fine covered by six marks 

or ninepins in metalmen 

for the sake of his labour’s dross 

while it will be only now and again in our rear of o’er era, 

as an upshoot of military and civil engagements, 

that a gynecure was let on to the scuffold 

for taking that same fine sum covertly by meddlement 

with the drawers of his neighbour’s safe.

————————————————

Now after all that farfatch’d and peragrine 

or dingnant or clere 

lift we our ears, eyes of the darkness, 

from the tome of Liber Lividus 

and, (toh!), how paisibly eirenical, 

all dimmering dunes and gloamering glades, 

selfstretches afore us our fredeland’s plain! 

Lean neath stone pine the pastor lies with his crook; 

young pricket by pricket’s sister nibbleth on returned viridities; 

amaid her rocking grasses the herb trinity shams lowliness; 

skyup is of evergrey. 

Thus, too, for donkey’s years. 

Since the bouts of Hebear and Hairyman 

the cornflowers have been staying at Ballymun, (p15)

the duskrose has choosed out Goatstown’s hedges, 

twolips have pressed togatherthem by sweet Rush, 

townland of twinedlights, 

the whitethorn and the redthorn have fairygeyed the mayvalleys of Knockmaroon, 

and, though for rings round them, 

during a chiliad of perihelygangs, 

the Formoreans have brittled the tooath of the Danes 

and the Oxman has been pestered by the Firebugs 

and the Joynts have thrown up jerrybuilding to the Kevanses 

and Little on the Green is childsfather to the City 

(Year! Year! And laughtears!), 

these paxsealing buttonholes have quadrilled across the centuries 

and whiff now whafft to us, 

fresh and made-of-all-smiles 

as, on the eve of Killallwho.

———————————————————

The babbelers with their thangas vain have been 

(confusium hold them!) they were and went; 

thigging thugs were 

and houhnhymn songtoms were 

and comely norgels were 

and pollyfool fiansees. 

Menn have thawed, 

clerks have surssurhummed, 

the blond has sought of the brune: 

Elsekiss thou may, mean Kerry piggy?: 

and the duncledames have countered with the hellish fellows: 

Who ails tongue coddeau, aspace of dumbillsilly? 

And they fell upong one another: 

and themselves they have fallen. 

And still nowanights and by nights of yore 

do all bold floras of the field to their shyfaun lovers say only: 

Cull me ere I wilt to thee!: 

and, but a little later: 

Pluck me whilst I blush! 

Well may they wilt, marry, and profusedly blush, be troth! 

For that saying is as old as the howitts. 

Lave a whale a while in a whillbarrow 

(isn’t it the truath I’m tallin ye?) 

to have fins and flippers that shimmy and shake. 

Tim Timmycan timped hir, tampting Tam. 

Fleppety! Flippety! Fleapow!

——————————————-

Hop!

———————————————-

In the name of Anem 

this carl on the kopje 

in pelted thongs 

a parth a lone 

who the joebiggar be he? 

Forshapen his pigmaid hoagshead, 

shroonk his plodsfoot. 

He hath locktoes, this shortshins, 

and, Obeold that’s pectoral, 

his mamma-muscles most mousterious. 

It is slaking nuncheon out of some thing’s brain pan. 

Me seemeth a dragon man. 

He is almonthst on the kiep fief by here, 

is Comestipple Sacksoun, 

be it junipery or febrewery, 

marracks or alebrill 

or the ramping riots of pouriose and (p16) froriose. 

What a quhare soort of a mahan. 

It is evident the michindaddy. 

Lets we overstep his fire defences 

and these kraals of slitsucked marrogbones. 

(Cave!) 

He can praps-posterus the pillory way to Hirculos pillar. 

Come on, fool porterfull, hosiered women blown monk sewer? 

Scuse us, chorley guy! You tollerday donsk? 

N. 

You tolkatiff scowegian? 

Nn. 

You spigotty anglease? 

Nnn. 

You phonio saxo? 

Nnnn. 

Clear all so! ’Tis a Jute. 

Let us swop hats and excheck a few strong verbs weak oach eather 

yapyazzard abast the blooty creeks.

——————————————————

Jute.— Yutah!

Mutt.—Mukk’s pleasurad.

Jute.— Are you jeff?

Mutt.—Somehards.

Jute.— But you are not jeffmute?

Mutt.—Noho. Only an utterer.

Jute.— Whoa? Whoat is the mutter with you?

Mutt.—I became a stun a stummer.

Jute.— What a hau-hau-hau-haudibble thing, to be cause! How, Mutt?

Mutt.—Aput the buttle, surd.

Jute.— Whose poddle? Wherein?

Mutt.—The Inns of Dungtarf where Used awe to be he.

Jute.— You that side your voise are almost inedible to me. 

            Become a bitskin more wiseable, as if I were you.

Mutt.—Has? Has at? Hasatency? Urp, Boohooru! Booru Usurp! 

I trumple from rath in mine mines when I rimimirim!

Jute.—  One eyegonblack. Bisons is bisons. 

Let me fore all your hasitancy cross your qualm with trink gilt. 

Here have sylvan coyne, a piece of oak. 

Ghinees hies good for you.

Mutt.—Louee, louee! 

How wooden I not know it, 

the intellible greytcloak of Cedric Silkyshag! 

Cead mealy faulty rices for one dabblin bar. 

Old grilsy growlsy! 

He was poached on in that eggtentical spot. 

Here (p17) where the liveries, Monomark. 

There where the missers moony, Minnikin passe.

Jute.— Simply because as Taciturn pretells, 

our wrong-story-shortener, 

he dumptied the wholeborrow of rubbages on to soil here.

Mutt.—Just how a puddinstone inat the brookcells by a riverpool.

Jute.— Load Allmarshy! Wid wad for a norse like?

Mutt.—Somular with a bull on a clompturf. 

Rooks roarum rex roome! 

I could snore to him of the spumy horn, 

with his woolseley side in, by the neck I am sutton on, 

did Brian d’ of Linn.

Jute.—  Boildoyle and rawhoney on me 

when I can beuraly forsstand a weird from sturk to finnic 

in such a patwhat as your rutter-dam-rotter. 

Onheard of and um&scene! 

Gut aftermeal! 

See you doomed.

Mutt.—Quite agreem. Bussave a sec. 

Walk a dun blink roundward this albutisle 

and you skull see how olde ye plaine of my Elters, 

hunfree and ours, 

where wone to wail whimbrel to peewee o’er the saltings, 

where wilby citie by law of isthmon, 

where by a droit of signory, 

icefloe was from his Inn the Byggning to whose Finishthere Punct. 

Let erehim ruhmuhrmuhr. 

Mearmerge two races, swete and brack. 

Morthering rue. 

Hither, craching eastuards, they are in surgence: 

hence, cool at ebb, they requiesce. 

Countlessness of livestories have nether-fallen by this plage, 

flick as flowflakes, litters from aloft, 

like a waast wizzard all of whirl-worlds. 

Now are all tombed to the mound,  isges to isges, erde from erde. 

Pride, O pride, thy prize!

Jute.—’Stench!

Mutt.—Fiatfuit! Here-in-under lyethey. 

Llarge by the smal an’ everynight life olso th’estrange, 

babylone the great-grand-hotelled 

with tit tit tittlehouse, alp on earwig, drukn on ild, 

likeas equal to anequal in this sound seemetery 

which iz leebez luv. (p18)

Jute.—’Zmorde!

Mutt.—Meld-und-leize! By the fearse wave behoughted. 

Despond’s sung. And than-acestross mound have swollup them all. 

This ourth of years is not save brick-dust 

and being humus the same roturns. 

He who runes may rede it on all fours. 

O’c’stle, n’wc’stle, tr’c’stle, crumbling! 

Sell me sooth the fare for Humblin! 

Humblady Fair. 

But speak it all-so-siftly, moulder! 

Be in your whisht!

Jute.—Whysht?

Mutt.—The gyant Forficules with Amni the fay.

Jute.—Howe?

Mutt.—Here is viceking’s graab.

Jute.— Hwaad!

Mutt.—Ore you astoneaged, jute you?

Jute.— Oye am thon-thor-strok, thing mud.

————————————————————

(Stoop) if you are abcedminded, to this claybook, 

what curios of signs (please stoop), in this allaphbed! 

Can you rede (since We and Thou had it out already) its world? 

It is the same told of all. 

Many. 

Miscegenations on miscegenations. 

Tieckle. 

They lived und laughed ant loved end left. 

Forsin. 

Thy thingdome is given to the Meades and Porsons. 

The meandertale, aloss and again, 

of our old Heidenburgh 

in the days when Head-in-Clouds walked the earth. 

In the ignorance 

that implies impression 

that knits knowledge 

that finds the nameform 

that whets the wits 

that convey contacts 

that sweeten sensation 

that drives desire 

that adheres to attachment 

that dogs death 

that bitches birth 

that entails the ensuance of existentiality. 

But with a rush out of his navel reaching the reredos of Ramasbatham. 

A terricolous vively-on-view this; queer and it continues to be quaky. 

A hatch, a celt, an earshare 

the pourquose of which was to cassay the earth-crust at all of hours, 

furrowards, bagawards, like yoxen at the turnpaht. 

Here say figurines billycoose arming and mounting. 

Mounting and arming bellicose figurines see here. 

Futhorc, this liffle effingee is for a firefing called a flint-for-fall. 

Face at the eased! 

O I fay! 

Face at the waist! 

Ho, you fie! 

Upwap and dump em, ace to ace! 

When a (p19) part so ptee does duty for the holos 

we soon grow to use of an allforabit. 

Here (please to stoop) are selveran cued peteet peas 

of quite a pecuniar interest 

inaslittle as they are the pellets that make the tomtummy’s pay roll. 

Right rank ragnar rocks 

and with these rox orango-tangos rangled rough and right-go-rong. 

Wisha, wisha, why-did-tha? 

Thik is for thorn that’s thuck in its thoil 

like thumfool’s thraitor thrust for vengeance. 

What a mnice old mness it all mnakes! 

A middenhide hoard of objects! 

Olives, beets, kimmells, dollies, alfrids, beatties, cormacks and daltons. 

Owlets’ eegs (O stoop to please!) are here, 

creakish from age and all now quite epsilene, 

and oldwolldy wobblewers, haudworth a wipe o grass. 

Sss! See the snake wurrums everyside! 

Our durlbin is sworming in sneaks. 

They came to our island from triangular Toucheaterre 

beyond the wet prairie 

rared up in the midst of the cargon of prohibitive pomefructs 

but along landed Paddy Wippingham 

and the his garbage-cans cotched the creeps of them 

pricker than our whose-there out-of-man could quick up her whats-thats. 

Some-divide and sum-the-lot 

but the tally turns round the same balifuson. 

Racketeers and bottloggers.

——————————————————-

Axe on thwacks on thracks, axenwise. 

One by one place one be three dittoh and one before. 

Two nursus one make a plausible free and idim behind. 

Starting off with a big boaboa and threelegged calvers 

and ivargraine jadesses with a message in their mouths. 

And a hundread-filled unleaven-weight of libero-rum-queue 

to con an we can till all-horrors eve. 

What a meander-thall-tale to unfurl 

and with what an end 

in view of squattor 

and annti-squattor 

and post-pro-ne-aunti-squattor! 

To say too us to be every tim, nick and larry of us, 

sons of the sod, 

sons, littlesons, yea and lealittlesons, 

when usses not to be, every sue, siss and sally of us, 

dugters of Nan! 

Accusative ahnsire! 

Damadam to infinities

————————————————-

True there was in nillohs dieybos 

as yet no lumpend papeer in the waste, 

and might-mountain Penn still groaned for the micies to let flee. 

All was of ancientry. 

You gave me a boot (signs on it!) and I ate the wind. 

I quizzed you a quid (with for what?) and you went to the quod. 

But the world, mind, 

is, was and will be writing its own wrunes for ever, 

man, on all matters that fall (p20) under the ban of our infra-rational senses 

fore the last milch-camel, 

the heartvein throbbing between his eye-browns, 

has still to moor before the tomb of his cousin charmian 

where his date is tethered by the palm that’s hers. 

But the horn, the drinking, the day of dread are not now. 

A bone, a pebble, a ramskin; 

chip them, chap them, cut them up allways; 

leave them to terracook in the muttheringpot: 

and Gutenmorg with his cromagnom charter, 

tintingfast and great primer 

must once for omniboss step rubrickredd out of the wordpress 

else is there no virtue more in alcohoran. 

For that (the rapt one warns) is what papyr is meed of, 

made of, hides and hints and misses in prints. 

Till ye finally (though not yet endlike) 

meet with the acquaintance 

of Mister Typus, Mistress Tope and all the little typtopies. 

Fillstup. 

So you need hardly spell me 

how every word will be bound over 

to carry three score and ten toptypsical readings 

throughout the book of Doublends Jined 

(may his fore-head be darkened with mud who would sunder!) 

till Daleth, ma-homa-houma, who oped it closeth thereof the. 

Dor.

————————————————————

Cry not yet! 

There’s many a smile to Nondum, 

with sytty maids per man, sir, 

and the park’s so dark by kindlelight. 

But look what you have in your handself! 

The movibles are scrawling in motions, 

marching, all of them ago, 

in pitpat and zingzang for every busy eerie whig’s a bit of a torytale to tell. 

One’s upon a thyme and two’s behind their lettice leap 

and three’s among the strubbely beds. 

And the chicks picked their teeths and the dombkey he begay began. 

You can ask your ass if he believes it. 

And so cuddy me only wallops have heels. 

That one of a wife with folty barnets. 

For then was the age when hoops ran high. 

Of a noarch and a chopwife; 

of a pomme full grave and a fammy of levity; 

or of golden youths that wanted gelding; 

or of what the mischievmiss made a man do. 

Mal-marrie-dad he was reverso-gassed by the frisque of her frasques 

and her prytty pyrrhique. 

Maye faye, she’s la gaye this snaky woman! 

From that trippiery toe expectung-pelick! 

Veil, volantine, valentine eyes. 

She’s the very besch Winnie blows Nay on good. 

Flou inn, flow ann. Hohore! 

So it’s sure it was her not we! 

But lay it easy, gentle (p21) mien, we are in rearing of a norewhig. 

So weeny-beeny-veeny-teeny. 

Comsy see! 

Het wis if ee newt. Lissom! lissom! 

I am doing it. Hark, the corne entreats! 

And the larpnotes prittle.

——————————————————

It was of a night, late, lang time agone, 

in an auldstane eld, 

when Adam was delvin 

and his madameen spinning watersilts, 

when mulk mounty-notty man was everybully 

and the first leal ribber-robber that ever had her ainway 

every-buddy to his lovesaking eyes 

and every-billy lived alove with every-biddy else, 

and Jarl van Hoother had his burnt head high up in his lamphouse, 

laying cold hands on himself. 

And his two little jiminies, cousins of ourn, 

Tristopher and Hilary, 

were kick-a-heeling their dummy 

on the oil cloth flure of his homerigh, castle and earthen-house. 

And, be dermot, 

who come to the keep of his inn 

only the niece-of-his-inlaw, 

the prankquean. 

And the prankquean pulled a rosy one and made her wit foreninst the dour. 

And she lit up and fireland was ablaze. 

And spoke she to the dour in her petty perusienne: 

Mark the Wans, why do I am alook alike a poss of porterpease? 

And that was how the skirtmisshes began. 

But the dour handworded her grace in dootch nossow: Shut! 

So her grace o’malice kidsnapped up the jiminy Tristopher 

and into the shandy westerness she rain, rain, rain. 

And Jarl van Hoother warlessed after her with soft dovesgall: 

Stop deef stop come back to my earin stop. 

But she swaradid to him: Unlikelihud. 

And there was a brannewail that same sabboath night 

of falling angles somewhere in Erio. 

And the prankquean went for her forty years’ walk in Tour-le-monde 

and she washed the blessings of the lovespots off the jiminy 

with soap sulliver suddles 

and she had her four owlers masters for to tauch him his tickles 

and she convorted him to the onesure allgood 

and he became a luderman. 

So then she started to rain and to rain 

and, be redtom, 

she was back again at Jarl van Hoother’s in a brace of samers 

and the jiminy with her in her pinafrond, 

lace at night, at another time. 

And where did she come but to the bar of his bristolry. 

And Jarl von Hoother had his baretholo-bruised heels drowned in his cellarmalt, 

shaking warm hands with himself 

and the jimminy Hilary 

and (p22) the dummy in their first infancy 

were below on the tearsheet, wringing and coughing, 

like brodar and histher. 

And the prankquean nipped a paly one and lit up again 

and redcocks flew flackering from the hillcombs. 

And she made her witter before the wicked, saying: 

Mark the Twy, why do I am alook alike two poss of porterpease? 

And: Shut! says the wicked, hand-wording her madesty. 

So her madesty ’a forethought’ set down a jiminy 

and took up a jiminy 

and all the lilipath ways to Woeman’s Land she rain, rain, rain. 

And Jarl von Hoother bleethered atter her with a loud finegale: 

Stop domb stop come back with my earring stop. 

But the prankquean swaradid: 

Am liking it. 

And there was a wild old grannewwail that laurency night 

of starshootings somewhere in Erio. 

And the prankquean went for her forty years’ walk in Turn-le-meem 

and she punched the curses of cromcruwell 

with the nail of a top into the jiminy 

and she had her four larksical monitrix to touch him his tears 

and she provorted him to the one-certain all-secure 

and he became a tristian. 

So then she started raining, raining, 

and in a pair of changers, be dom ter, 

she was back again at Jarl von Hoother’s 

and the Larryhill with her under her abromette. 

And why would she halt at all 

if not by the ward of his mansionhome 

of another nice lace for the third charm? 

And Jarl von Hoother had his hurricane hips up to his pantrybox, 

ruminating in his holdfour stomachs 

(Dare! O dare!), 

ant the jiminy Toughertrees and the dummy were belove on the watercloth, 

kissing and spitting, and roguing and poghuing, 

like knavepaltry and naivebride and in their second infancy. 

And the prankquean picked a blank and lit out and the valleys lay twinkling. 

And she made her wittest in front of the arkway of trihump, asking: 

Mark the Tris, why do I am alook alike three poss of porter pease? 

But that was how the skirtmishes endupped. 

For like the campbells acoming with a fork lance of lightning, 

Jarl von Hoother Boanerges himself, 

the old terror of the dames, 

came hip hop handihap out through the pikeopened arkway 

of his three shuttoned castles, 

in his broadginger hat 

and his civic chollar 

and his allabuff hemmed 

and his bull-braggin soxan-gloves 

and his ladbroke breeks 

and his cattegut bandolair 

and his fur-(p23)-framed panuncular cumbottes 

like a rudd yellan gruebleen orangeman in his violet indigonation, 

to the whole longth of the strongth of his bowman’s bill. 

And he clopped his rude hand to his eacy hitch 

and he ordurd and his thick spch spck for her to shut up shop, dappy. 

And the duppy shot the shutter clup 

(Perko-dhusku-run-barg-gruau-

yagok-gorlay-orgrom-gremmitg-

hund-hurth-ruma-thuna-radi-dilli-

fait-itilli-bumul-lunuk-kunun!) 

And they all drank free. 

For one man in his armour was a fat match always for any girls under shurts. 

And that was the first peace of illiterative porthery 

in all the flamend floody flatuous world. 

How kirssy the tiler made a sweet unclose to the Narwhealian captol. 

Saw fore shalt thou sea. 

Betoun ye and be. 

The prankquean was to hold her dummyship 

and the jimminies was to keep the peacewave 

and van Hoother was to git the wind up. 

Thus the hearsomeness of the burger felicitates the whole of the polis.

—————————————————————

O foenix culprit! 

Ex nickylow malo comes mickelmassed bonum. 

Hill, rill, ones in company, billeted, less be proud of. 

Breast high and bestride! 

Only for that these will not breathe upon Norronesen 

or Irenean the secrest of their soorcelossness. 

Quarry silex, Homfrie Noanswa! 

Undy gentian festyknees, Livia Noanswa? 

Wolkencap is on him, frowned; 

audiurient, he would evesdrip, 

were it mous at hand, 

were it dinn of bottles in the far ear. 

Murk, his vales are darkling. 

With lipth she lithpeth to him all to time of thuch on thuch and thow on thow. 

She he she ho she ha to la. 

Hairfluke, if he could bad twig her! 

Impalpabunt, he abhears. 

The soundwaves are his buffeteers; 

they trompe him with their trompes; 

the wave of roary 

and the wave of hooshed 

and the wave of hawhawhawrd 

and the wave of never-heed-them-horse-luggars-and-listel-to-mine. 

Landloughed by his neaghboormistress 

and perpetrified in his offsprung, 

sabes and suckers, 

the moaning pipers could tell him to his faceback, 

the louthly one whose loab we are devorers of, 

how butt for his hold halibutt, 

or her to her pudor puff, 

the lipalip one whose libe we drink at, 

how biff for her tiddywink of a windfall, 

our breed and washer givers, 

there would not be a holey spier on the town 

nor a vestal flouting in the dock, 

nay to make plein avowels, 

nor a yew nor an eye (p24) to play cash cash 

in Novo Nilbud by swamplight 

nor a’ toole o’ tall o’ toll 

and noddy hint to the convaynience.

———————————————————————-

He dug in and dug out by the skill of his tilth 

for himself and all belonging to him 

and he sweated his crew beneath his auspice for the living 

and he urned his dread, that dragon volant, 

and he made louse for us 

and delivered us to boll weevils amain, 

that mighty liberator, 

Unfru-Chikda-Uru-Wukru 

and begad he did, 

our ancestor most worshipful, 

till he thought of a better one 

in his windower’s house 

with that blushmantle upon him from earsend to earsend. 

And would again could whispring grassies wake him 

and may again when the fiery bird disembers. 

And will again if so be sooth by elder to his youngers shall be said. 

Have you whines for my wedding, 

did you bring bride and bedding, 

will you whoop for my deading is a? 

Wake? 

Usgueadbaugham!

————————————————

Anam muck an dhoul! Did ye drink me doornail?

————————————————-

Now be aisy, good Mr Finnimore, sir. 

And take your laysure like a god on pension 

and don’t be walking abroad. 

Sure you’d only lose yourself in Healiopolis now 

the way your roads in Kapelavaster are that winding there 

after the calvary, the North Umbrian 

and the Fivs Barrow and Waddlings Raid 

and the Bower Moore 

and wet your feet maybe with the foggy dew’s abroad. 

Meeting some sick old bankrupt 

or the Cottericks’ donkey with his shoe hanging, 

clank-ata-chank-ata, 

or a slut snoring with an impure infant on a bench. 

’Twould turn you against life, so ’twould. 

And the weather’s that mean too. 

To part from Devlin is hard as Nugent knew, 

to leave the clean tanglesome one 

lushier than its neighbour enfranchisable fields 

but let your ghost have no grievance. 

You’re better off, sir, where you are, 

primesigned in the full of your dress, 

blood-eagle waistcoat and all, 

remembering your shapes and sizes 

on the pillow of your baby-curls 

under your sycamore by the keld water 

where the Tory’s clay will scare the varmints 

and have all you want, 

pouch, gloves, flask, bricket, kerchief, ring and amberulla, 

the whole treasure of the pyre, 

in the land of souls 

with Homin and Broin Baroke and pole ole Lonan 

and No-bucket-nozzler and the Guinnghis Khan. 

And we’ll be coming here, 

the ombre players, 

to rake your gravel and bringing (p25) you presents, 

won’t we, fenians? 

And it isn’t our spittle we’ll stint you of, is it, druids? 

Not shabbty little imagettes, 

pennydirts and dodge-my-eyes you buy in the soottee stores. 

But offerings of the field. 

Mieliodories, that Doctor Faherty, 

the madison man, taught to gooden you. 

Poppypap’s a passport out. 

And honey is the holiest thing ever was, 

hive, comb and earwax, 

the food for glory, 

(mind you keep the pot or your nectar cup may yield too light!) 

and some goat’s milk, sir, 

like the maid used to bring you. 

Your fame is spreading like Basilico’s ointment 

since the Fintan Lalors piped you overborder 

and there’s whole households beyond the Bothnians 

and they calling names after you. 

The menhere’s always talking of you sitting around on the pig’s cheeks 

under the sacred rooftree, 

over the bowls of memory 

where every hollow holds a hallow, 

with a pledge till the drengs, 

in the Salmon House. 

And admiring to our super-shillelagh 

where the palmsweat on high is the mark of your manument. 

All the toethpicks ever Eirenesians chewed on 

are chips chepped from that battery block. 

If you were bowed and soild and letdown itself 

from the oner of the load it was 

that paddyplanters might pack up plenty 

and when you were undone in every point fore the laps of goddesses 

you showed our labourlasses how to free was easy. 

The game old Gunne, 

they do be saying, (skull!) 

that was a planter for you, 

a spicer of them all. 

Begog but he was, the G.O.G! 

He’s duddandgunne now 

and we’re apter finding the sores of his sedeq 

but peace to his great limbs, 

the buddhoch, 

with the last league long rest of him, 

while the millioncandled eye of Tuskar sweeps the Moylean Main! 

There was never a warlord in Great Erinnes and Brettland, 

no, nor in all Pike County like you, they say. 

No, nor a king nor an ardking, bung king, sung king or hung king. 

That you could fell an elmstree twelve urchins couldn’t ring round 

and hoist high the stone that Liam failed. 

Who but a Maccullaghmore the reise of our fortunes 

and the faunayman at the funeral to compass our cause? 

If you was hoggle-bully itself 

and most frifty like you was taken waters still 

what all where was your like to lay the cable 

or who was the batter could better Your Grace? 

Mick Mac Magnus MacCawley can take you off to (p26) the pure perfection 

and Leatherbags Reynolds tries your shuffle and cut. 

But as Hopkins and Hopkins puts it, 

you were the pale eggynaggy and a kis to tilly up. 

We calls him the journeyall Buggaloffs 

since he went Jerusalem-faring in Arssia Manor. 

You had a gamier cock than Pete, Jake or Martin 

and your archgoose of geese stubbled for All Angels’ Day. 

So may the priest of seven worms and scalding tayboil, 

Papa Vestray, 

come never anear you as your hair grows wheater 

beside the Liffey that’s in Heaven! 

Hep, hep, hurrah there! Hero! 

Seven times thereto we salute you! 

The whole bag of kits, 

falcon-plumes and jackboots incloted, 

is where you flung them that time. 

Your heart is in the system of the Shewolf 

and your crested head is in the tropic of Copricapron. 

Your feet are in the cloister of Virgo. 

Your olala is in the region of sahuls. 

And that’s ashore as you were born. 

Your shuck tick’s swell. 

And that there texas is tow linen. 

The loamsome roam to Laffayette is ended. 

Drop in your tracks, babe! 

Be not unrested! 

The head-boddyl-watcher of the chempel of Isid, 

Totum-calm-um, saith: 

I know thee, metherjar, 

I know thee, salvation boat. 

For we have performed upon thee, 

thou abramanation, 

who comest ever without being invoked, 

whose coming is unknown, 

all the things which the company of the precentors 

and of the grammarians of Christ-patrick’s ordered concerning thee 

in the matter of the work of thy tombing. 

Howe of the shipmen, steep wall!

—————————————

Everything’s going on the same or so it appeals to all of us, 

in the old holmsted here. 

Coughings all over the sanctuary, 

bad scrant to me aunt Florenza. 

The horn for breakfast, 

one o’gong for lunch and dinner-chime. 

As popular as when Belly the First was keng 

and his members met in the Diet of Man. 

The same shop slop in the window. 

Jacob’s letter-crackers and Dr Tipple’s Vi-Cocoa 

and the Eswuards’ desippated soup beside Mother Seagull’s syrup. 

Meat took a drop when Reilly-Parsons failed. 

Coal’s short but we’ve plenty of bog in the yard. 

And barley’s up again, begrained to it. 

The lads is attending school nessans regular, sir, 

spelling beesknees with hathatansy 

and turning out tables by mudapplication. 

Allfor the books and never pegging smashers 

after Tom Bowe Glassarse or Timmy the Tosser. 

’Tisraely the truth! 

No isn’t it, roman pathoricks? 

You were the double-joynted janitor the morning they were delivered 

and you’ll be a grandfer yet entirely 

when the rite-hand seizes what the lovearm knows. 

Kevin’s just a doat with his cherub cheek, 

chalking oghres on walls, 

and his little lamp and schoolbelt and bag of knicks, 

playing postman’s knock round the diggings 

and if the seep were milk you could lieve his olde by his ide 

but, laus sake, the devil does be in that knirps of a Jerry sometimes, 

the tarandtan plaidboy, 

making encostive inkum out of the last of his lavings 

and writing a blue streak over his bourseday shirt. 

Hetty Jane’s a child of Mary. 

She’ll be coming (for they’re sure to choose her) 

in her white of gold with a tourch of ivy to rekindle the flame on Felix Day. 

But Essie Shanahan has let down her skirts. 

You remember Essie in our Luna’s Convent? 

They called her Holly Merry 

her lips were so ruddyberry 

and Pia de Purebelle when the redminers riots was on about her. 

Were I a clerk designate to the Williams-woods-menufactors 

I’d poster those pouters on every jamb in the town. 

She’s making her rep at Lanner’s twice-nightly. 

With the tabarine tam-tammers of the whirligig-magees. 

Beats that cachucha flat. 

’Twould dilate your heart to go.

———————————————————————————

Aisy now, you decent man, 

with your knees and lie quiet and repose your honour’s lordship! 

Hold him here, Ezekiel Irons, and may God strengthen you! 

It’s our warm spirits, boys, he’s spooring. 

Dimitrius O’Flagonan, cork that cure for the Clancartys! 

You swamped enough since Portobello to float the Pomeroy. 

Fetch neahere, Pat Koy! 

And fetch nouyou, Pam Yates! 

Be nayther angst of Wramawitch! 

Here’s lumbos. 

Where misties swaddlum, 

where misches lodge none, 

where mystries pour kind on, O sleepy! 

So be yet!

——————————————————-

I’ve an eye on queer Behan and old Kate and the butter, trust me. 

She’ll do no juggly-wuggly 

with her war souvenir postcards to help to build me murial, tippers! 

I’ll trip your traps! 

Assure a sure there! 

And we put on your clock again, sir, for you. 

Did or didn’t we, share-stutterers? 

So you won’t be up a stump entirely. 

Nor shed your remnants. 

The sternwheel’s crawling strong. 

I (p28) seen your missus in the hall. 

Like the queenoveire. 

Arrah, it’s herself that’s fine, too, don’t be talking! 

Shirksends? 

You storyan Harry chap longa me Harry chap storyan 

grass woman plelthy good trout. 

Shakeshands. 

Dibble a hayfork’s wrong with her only her lex’s salig. 

Boald Tib does be yawning and smirking cat’s hours 

on the Pollockses’ woolly round tabouret-cushion 

watching her sewing a dream together, 

the tailor’s daughter, stitch to her last. 

Or while waiting for winter to fire the enchantement, 

decoying more nesters to fall down the flue. 

It’s all-avalonche that blows nopussy food. 

If you only were there to explain the meaning, 

best of men, and talk to her nice of gulden-selver. 

The lips would moisten once again. 

As when you drove with her to Findrinny Fair. 

What with reins here and ribbons there 

all your hands were employed 

so she never knew was she on land or at sea 

or swooped through the blue like Airwinger’s bride. 

She was flirtsome then and she’s fluttersome yet. 

She can second a song 

and adores a scandal when the last post’s gone by. 

Fond of a concertina and pairs passing 

when she’s had her forty winks for supper 

after kane-kannan and abbely dimpling 

and is in her merlin chair assotted, 

reading her Evening World. 

To see is it smarts, full lengths or swaggers. 

News, news, all the news. 

Death, a leopard, kills fellah in Fez. 

Angry scenes at Stormount. 

Stilla Star with her lucky in going-aways. 

Opportunity fair with the China floods and we hear these rosy rumours. 

Ding Tams he noise about all same Harry chap. 

She’s seeking her way, a chickle a chuckle, 

in and out of their serial story, 

Les Loves of Selskar et Pervenche, 

freely adapted to The Novvergin’s Viv. 

There’ll be bluebells blowing in salty sepulchres 

the night she signs her final tear. 

Zee End. 

But that’s a world of ways away. 

Till track laws time. 

No silver ash or switches for that one! 

While flattering candles flare. 

Anna Stacey’s how are you! 

Worther waist in the noblest, 

says Adams and Sons, 

the would-pay actionneers. 

Her hair’s as brown as ever it was. 

And wivvy and wavy. 

Repose you now! 

Finn no more!

—————————————————-

For, be that samesake sibsubstitute of a hooky salmon, 

there’s already a big rody ram lad at random on the premises 

of his (p29) haunt of the hungred bordles, 

as it is told me. 

Shop Illicit, flourishing like a lordmajor or a bua-boa-bay-bohm, 

litting flop a deadlop (aloose!) to lee 

but lifting a bennbranch a yardalong (Ivoeh!) 

the breezy side (for showm!), 

the height of Brewster’s chimpney 

and as broad below as Phineas Barnum; 

humphing his share of the showthers is senken on him 

he’s such a grandfallar, 

with a pocked wife in pickle that’s a flyfire 

and three lice nittle clinkers, 

two twilling bugs and one midgit pucelle. 

And aither he cursed and recursed 

and was everseen doing what your fourfootlers saw 

or he was never done seeing what you cool-pigeons know, 

weep the clouds aboon for smiledown witnesses, 

and that’ll do now 

about the fairyhees and the frailyshees. 

Though Eset fibble it to the zephiroth 

and Artsa zoom it round her heavens for ever. 

Creator he has created for his creatured ones a creation. 

White monothoid? 

Red theatrocrat? 

And all the pink-prophets cohalething? 

Very much so! 

But however ’twas ’tis sure for one thing, 

what sherif Toragh voucherfors and Mapqiq makes put out, 

that the man, 

Humme the Cheapner, Esc, 

overseen as we thought him, 

yet a worthy of the naym, 

came at this time-coloured place 

where we live in our paroqial fermament 

one tide on another, 

with a bumrush in a hull of a wherry, 

the twin turbane dhow, 

The Bey for Dybbling, 

this archipelago’s first visiting schooner, 

with a wicklow-pattern waxen-wench at her prow for a figurehead, 

the deadsea dugong up-dip-dripping from his depths, 

and has been repreaching himself 

like a fish-mummer these siktyten years ever since, 

his shebi by his shide, 

adi and aid, 

growing hoarish under his turban 

and changing cane sugar into sethulose starch 

(Tuttut’s cess to him!) 

as also that, 

batin the bulkihood he bloats about when innebbiated, 

our old offender was humile, commune and ensectuous from his nature, 

which you may gauge after the bynames was put under him, 

in lashons of languages, 

(honnein suit and praisers be!) 

and, totalisating him, 

even hamissim of himashim 

that he, sober serious, 

he is ee and no counter he 

who will be ultimendly respunchable 

for the hubbub caused in Edenborough.