by James Joyce
Whethen, now, may the good people speed you, rural Haun, export stout fellow that you are, the crooner born with sweet wail of evoker, healing music, ay, and heart in hand of Shamrogueshire! The googoos of the suckabolly in the rockabeddy are become the copiosity of wiseableness of the friarylayman in the pulpitbarrel. May your bawny hair grow rarer and fairer, our own only wideheaded boy! Rest your voice! Feed your mind! Mint your peas! Coax your qyous! Come to Lisdoonblarney and walk our groves so charming and see again the sweet rockclose where first you hymned O Chiesa Mia! And touch the light theorbo! Songster, angler, choreographer! Piper to prisoned! Musicianship made Embrassador-at-Large! Good by nature and natural by design, had you but been spared to us, Hauneen lad, but sure where’s the use my talking quicker when I know you’ll hear me all astray? My long farewell I send to you, fair dream of sport and game and always something new. Gone is Haun! My grief, my ruin! Our Joss-el-Jovan! Our Chris-na-Murty! ’Tis well you’ll be looked after from last to first as yon beam of light we follow receding on your photophoric pilgrimage to your antipodes in the past, you who so often consigned your distributory tidings of great joy into our nevertoolatetolove box, mansuetudinous manipulator, victimisedly victorihoarse, dearest Haun of them all, you of the boots, true as a die, stepwalker, pennyatimer, lampaddyfair, postanulengro, our rommanychiel! Thy now palewaning light lucerne we ne’er may see again. But could it speak how nicely would it splutter to the four cantons praises be to thee, our pattern sent! For you had—may I, in our, your and their names, dare to say it?—the nucleus of a glow of zeal of soul of service such as rarely, if ever, have I met with in single men. Numerous are those who, nay, there are a dozen of folks still unclaimed by the death angel in this country of ours today, humble indivisibles in this grand continuum, overlorded by fate and interlarded with accidence, who, while there are hours and days, ere he retourneys postexilic, will fervently pray to the Spirit above that they may never depart this earth of theirs till in his long run, from that place where the day begins, on that day that belongs to joyful Ireland, the people that is of all time, the old old oldest, the young young youngest, after decades of longsuffering and decennia of briefglory, to mind us of what was when and to matter us of the whithering of our whys, their Janyouare Fibyouare wins true from Sylvester and (only Waltzer himself is like Waltzer, whimsicalissimo they go murmurand) comes marching ahome on the summer crust of the flagway. Life, it is true, will be a blank without you because avicuum’s not there at all, to nomore cares from nomad knows, ere Molochy wars bring the devil era, a slip of the time between a date and a ghostmark, rived by darby’s chilldays embers, spatched fun Juhn that dandyforth, from the night we are and feel and fade with to the yesterselves we tread to turnupon.
But, boy, you did your strong nine furlong mile in slick and slapstick record time and a farfetched deed it was in troth, champion docile with your high bouncing gait of going, and your feat of passage will be contested with you and through you for centuries to come. The phaynix rose a sun before Erebia sank his smother! Shoot up on that, bright Bennu bird! Va faotre! Eftsoon so too will our own sphoenix spark spirt his spyre and sunward stride the vampante flambe. Ay, already the sombrer opacities of the gloom are sphanished! Brave footsore Haun! Work your progress! Hold to! Now! Win out, ye divil ye! The silent cock shall crow at last. The west shall shake the east awake. Walk while ye have the night, for morn, lightbreak-fastbringer, morroweth whereon every past shall full fost sleep. Amain.
Lowly, longly, a wail went forth. Pure Yawn lay low. On the mead of the hillock he lay, heartsoul dormant mid shadowed landshape, brief wallet to his side, an arm loose by his staff of citron briar, tradition stick-pass-on. His dream monologue was over, of cause, but his drama parapolylogic had yet to be, affact. Most distressfully (but, my dear, how successfully!) to wail he did, his locks of a lucan tinge, quickrich, ripely rippling, unfilleted, those lashbetasselled lids on the verge of closing time, whiles ouze of his side-wiseopen mouth the breath of him evenso languishing as the princeliest treble treacle or lichee chewchow purse could buy. Yawn in a semiswoon lay awailing and (hooh!) what helpings of honeyful swoothead and (phew!) which earpiercing dulcitude! As were you suppose to go and push with your bluntblank pin in hand upintohis fleshasplush cushionettes of some chubby boybold love of an angel. Hwoah!
When, as the buzzer brings the light brigade, keeping the home fires burning, so on the churring call themselves came at him, from the westborders of the eastmidlands, three kings of three suits and a crowner, from all their cardinal parts, along the amber way where Brosna’s furzy. To lift them they did, senators four, by the first quaint skreek of the gloaming, and they hopped it up the mountainy molehill, traversing climes of old times gone by, of the days not worth remembering, inventing some excusethems, any sort, having a sevenply sweat of nightblues moist upon them—feefee! phopho!! foorchtha!!! aggala!!!! jeeshee!!!!! paloola!!!!!! ooridiminy!!!!!!! Afeard themselves were to wonder at the class of a crossroads puzzler he would likely be, length by breadth nonplussing his thickness, ells upon ells of him, making so many square yards of him, one half of him in Conn’s half but the whole of him nevertheless in Owenmore’s five quarters. There would he lay till they would him descry, spancelled down upon a blossomy bed at one foul stretch amongst the daffydowndillies, the flowers of narcosis fourfettering his footlights, a halohedge of wild spuds hovering over him, epicures waltzing with gardenfillers, puritan shoots advancing to Aran chiefs. Phopho!! The meteorpulp of him, the seamless rainbowpeel. Aggala!!!! His bellyvoid of nebulose with his neverstop navel. Paloola!!!!!! And his veins shooting melanite phosphor, his creamtocustard cometshair and his asteroid knuckles, ribs and members. Ooridiminy!!!!!!! His electrolatiginous twisted entrails belt.
Those four claymen clomb together to hold their sworn starchamber quiry on him. For he was ever their quarrel, the way they would see themselves when they would see themselves, everybug his bodiment atop of annywom her notion, and the meet of their night was worth two of his morning. Up to the esker ridge it was, Mullingar parish, to a mead that was not far, the son’s rest. First klettered Shanator Gregory, seeking spoor through the deep timefield; then Shanator Lyons, trailing the wavy line of his partitional footsteps (something in his blisters was telling him all along how he had been in that place one time); then His Recordership, Dr Shunadure Tarpey, caperchasing after honourable sleep, hot on to the aniseed; and, up out of his prompt corner, old Shunny Mac, Shunny MacDougal the hiker, in the rere of them on the run to make a quorum. Roping their ass he was, their skygrey globetrotter, by way of an afterthought, and by no means legless either for such sprouts on him they were that much oneven it was tumbling he was by four lengths, within the bawl of a mascot, kuss yuss, kuss cley, patsy watsy, like the kapr in the kabisses, the big ass, to hear with his unaided ears the harp in the air, the bugle dianablowing, wild as wild, the mockingbird whose word is misfortune, so ’tis said, the bulbul down the wind.
The proto was traipsing through the tangle then, Mathew Walker, godsons’ goddestfar, deputising for gossipocracy, and his station was a few perch to the weatherside of the knoll Asnoch and it was from no other place unless there, how and ever, that he proxtended aloof upon the ether Mesmer’s Manuum, the hand making silence. The buckos beyond on the lea then stopped wheresoever they found their standings and that way they set ward about him, doing obedience, nod, bend, bow and curtsey, like the watchers of Prospect, upholding their broadawake probers’ hats on their firrum heads, the travelling court on its findings circuiting that personer in his fallen. And a crack quatyouare of stenoggers they made of themselves, solons and psychomorers, all told, with their hurts and daimons, spites and clops, not even to the seclusion of their beast by them that was the odd trick of the pack, trump and no friend of carrots. And, what do you think, who above all other persons should be laying there forenenst them only Yawn! All of asprawl he was laying too amengst the poppies and, I can tell you something more than that, drear writer, profoundly as you may bed
eave to it, he was oscasleep asleep. And it was far more similar to a satrap he lay there with unctuous beauty, by satellites all surrounded, the poser, or for whatall I know like the Lord Lumen coaching his preferred constellations in faith and doctrine, for old Matt Gregory ’tis he had the starmenagerie: Marcus Lyons and Lucas Metcalfe Tarpey and the mack that never forgave the ass that lurked behind him, Johnny na Hossaleen.
More than their good share of their five senses ensorcelled you would say themselves were, fuming censor, the way they could not rightly tell their heels from their stools, as they cooched down a mamalujo by his cubical crib, as question time drew nighing and the map of the souls’ groupography rose in relief within their quarterings, to play tops or kites or hoops or marbles, curchycurchy, gawking on him for the issuance of his pnum and softnoising one of them to another one, the boguaqueesthers. And it is what they began to say to him tetrahedrally then, the masters, what way was he.
— He’s giving, the wee bairn. Yun has lived.
— Yerra, why dat, my leader?
— Wisha, is he boosed or what, alannah?
— Or his wind’s from the wrong cut, says Ned of the Hill.
— Lesten!
— Why so and speak up, do you hear me, you, sir?
— Or he’s rehearsing somewan’s funeral.
— Whisht outathat! Hubba’s up!
And as they were spreading abroad on their octopuds their drifter nets, the chronies, gleamy seiners’ nets, and, no lie, there was words of assonance being softspoken among those quartermasters.
— Get busy, kid!
— Chirpy, come now!
— The present hospices is a good time.
— I’ll take on that chap.
For it was in the back of their mind’s ear, temptive lissomer, how they would be spreading in quadriliberal their azurespotted fine attractable nets, their nansen nets, from Matt Senior to the thurrible mystagogue after him and from thence to the neighbour and that way to the puisny donkeyman and his crucifer’s cauda. And in their minds years backslibris so it was, slipping beauty, how they would be meshing that way, when he rose to it with the planckton at play about him, the quavers of scaly silver and their clutches of chromes of the highly lucid spanishing gold, whilst, as hour gave way to mazing hour, with Yawn himself keeping time with his thripthongue, to ope his blurbeous lips he would and let out classy the way myrrh of the moor and molten moonmist would be melding mellifond indo his mouth.
— Y?
— Before you!
— Ecko! How sweet thee answer makes! Afterwheres? In the land of lions’ odor?
— Friends!
— First, if yu don’t mine. Name yur historical grouns.
— This same prehistoric barrow ’tis, the orangery.
— I see. Very good now. It is in your orangery, I take it, you have your letters? Can you hear here me, you, sir?
— Thorsends. For my darling. Typette!
— So long aforetime? Can you hear better?
— Millions. For godsends. For my darling dearling one.
— Now, to come nearer zone, I would like to raise my deuterous point audibly touching this. There is this maggers. I am told by our interpreter, Hanner Esellius, that there are fully six hundred and six ragwords in your malherbal Magis landeguage in which wald wand rimes alpman and there is resin in all roots for monarch but yao hace not one pronounceable teerm that blows in all the vallums of Tartallaght to signify majestate, even provisionally, nor no rheda rhoda or torpentine path nor hallucinian via nor Aurellian gape nor sunkin rut nor grossgrown trekk nor crimeslaved cruxway and no moorhen’s cry or mooner’s plankgang there to lead us to hopen-haven. Is such the unde derivatur casematter, Messio? Frankly. Megis megis inerretur mynus hoc intelleyegow.
— How? C’est mal prononsable, tartagliano, perfrances. Vos navez pas d’O dong votr boche provenciale, mousoo. Je m’incline mais Moy, jay trouvay la clee dang les chants. Hay sham nap paddy velour, come on!
— Hep there! Commong, sa na pa de valure? Whu’s teit dans yur jambes? Whu’s thot inclining and talking about the Messiah so cloover? A trues to your trefling! Whure yu?
— Trinathan Partnick Dieudonnay. Have you seen her? Typette, my tactile, O!
— Are you in your fatherick, lonely one?
— The same. Three persons. Have you seen my darling only one? I am sohohohold!
— What are yu shevering about, ultramontane, like a houn in hell? Is there cold on ye, doraphobian? Or do yu want yur primafairy schoolmam?
— The woods of Fogloot. O mis padredges!
— Whisht awhile, greylag! The duck is rising and you’ll wake that stand of plover. I know that place better than annyone. Sure, I used to be always over there on the fourth day at my grandmother’s place, Tear-nan-Ogre, my little grey home in the west, in or about Mayo, when the long dogs gave tongue and they coursing the marches and they straining at the leash. Tortoiseshell for a guineagould! Burb! Burb! Burb! Follow me up, Tucurlugh! That’s the place for the claire oysters, Polldoody, County Conway. I never knew how rich I was, like another story in the zoedone of the zephyros, strolling and strolling and carrying my dragoman, Meath’s marvel, thass withumpronounceable tail, along the shore. Did you know my cousin, Mr Jasper Dougal that keeps The Anchor on the Mountain, the parson’s son, Jasper of the Tuns, Pat Whateveryournameis?
— Dood and I dood. The wolves of Fochlut! By Whydoyoucallme? Do not flingamejig to the wolves!
— Turcafiera! That’s a good wan right enough! Wooluvs no less!
— One moment now, if I foreshoreten the bloss on your bleather. Encroachement spells erosion. Dunlin and turnstone augur us where, how and when best as to burial of carcass, fuselage of dump and committal of noisance. But, since you invocate austers for the trailing of vixens, I would like to send a cormorant around this blue lagoon. Tell me now this. You told my larned friend rather previously, a moment since, about this mound or barrow. Now I suggest to you that ere there was this plagueburrow, as you seem to call it, there was a burial battell, the boat of millions of years. Would you bear me out in that, relatively speaking? With her jackstaff jerking at her jennyladders, why not, and sizing a fair sail? Knowest thou the kind? The Pourquoi Pas, bound for Weissduwasland, that fourmaster barquentine, Webster says, our ship that ne’er returned. The Frenchman, I say, was an orange boat. He is a boat. You see him. The both how you see is they! Draken af Danemork! Sacked it or ate it? What? Hennu! Spake ab laut!
— Couch, cortege, ringbarrow, dungcairn. Beseek the runes and see the longurn! All maun away when ye hear the gonghorn. And meet Nautsen. Ess Ess. O ess. Warum night! Conning two lay payees. Norsker. Her raven flag was out, the slaver. I trow pon Good, Jordan’s scaper, Good’s Barnet and Trustyman. Crouch low, you pigeons three! Say, call that girl with the tan tress awn! Call Wolfhound! Wolf of the sea. Folchu! Folchu!
— Very good now. That’s folklore straight from the ass his mouth. Now, to come to the midnight middy on this levantine ponenter, I will crusade on with the parent ship, weather prophetting, far away from those green hills. A station, Ireton tells me, bonafide for keeltappers. From Daneland sailed the oxeyed man. Now mark well what I say.
— Magnus Spadebeard, korsets krosser, welsher perfyddye. A destroyer in our port. Signed to me with his baling scoop. Laid bare his breastpaps to give suck, to suckle me. Ecce hagios chrisman!
— O Jeyses’ fluid! says the poisoned well. Futtfishy the First. Hootch-copper’s enkel at the navel manoeuvres!
— Hep! Hello there, Bill of Old Bailey! Whu’s he? Whu’s this lad wi’ the pups?
— Hunkalus Childared Easterheld. It’s his lost chance, Emania. Ware him well!
— Hey! Did you dream you were ating your own tripe, acushla, that you tied yourself up that wrynecky fix?
