Sunday, November 30, 2014

Page 327 (12.1779-1815) "of men whenas... bid farewell to"

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of men whenas they ride to a hosting or contend for the smile of ladies fair. Even so did they come and set them, those willing nymphs, the undying sisters. And they laughed, sporting in a circle of their foam: and the bark clave the waves.

But begob I was just lowering the heel of the pint when I saw the citizen getting up to waddle to the door, puffing and blowing with the dropsy, and he cursing the curse of Cromwell on him, bell, book and candle in Irish, spitting and spatting out of him and Joe and little Alf round him like a leprechaun trying to peacify him.

— Let me alone, says he.

And begob he got as far as the door and they holding him and he bawls out of him:

— Three cheers for Israel!

Arrah, sit down on the parliamentary side of your arse for Christ' sake and don't be making a public exhibition of yourself. Jesus, there's always some bloody clown or other kicking up a bloody murder about bloody nothing. Gob, it'd turn the porter sour in your guts, so it would.

And all the ragamuffins and sluts of the nation round the door and Martin telling the jarvey to drive ahead and the citizen bawling and Alf and Joe at him to whisht and he on his high horse about the jews and the loafers calling for a speech and Jack Power trying to get him to sit down on the car and hold his bloody jaw and a loafer with a patch over his eye starts singing If the man in the moon was a jew, jew, jew and a slut shouts out of her:

fdv: "Martin and Jack Power did their level best to keep him quiet but Bloom had his rag out, all the ragamuffins and guttersnipes of the place were jeering round the car and says one of the fishgirls:
-- Ay, mister. Look at your hat, mister!
What was it but Cusack had stuck two of the bloody betting tickets in the front of Bloom's topper and what was on it but: W.C.13. And Terry, the curate, and Alf Bergan were doubled up laughing:
-- O, mister! Look at what's on your hat, mister.
Arra sure Bloom didn't know what was up till Jack stood up and took off the tickets and all the sluts began to yell:
-- Eh, mister, give us a speech!
And the mudlarks screaming the Boys of Wexford. And Martin trying to get the jarvey to drive on. But Bloom was on his high horse speeching about the jews.
-- Mendelsohn was a jew, he says, and Karl Marx and Mercadante and Spinoza and your god was a jew, he shouted, and his father was a jew.
-- What? says Cusack.
-- He had no father, says Jack Power trying to pull him down.
Sure Bloom didn't know about father or mother, only shouting:
-- Yes, your god was a jew, Jesus Christ was a jew."

— Eh, mister! Your fly is open, mister!

And says he:

— Mendelssohn was a jew and Karl Marx and Mercadante and Spinoza. And the Saviour was a jew and his father was a jew. Your God.

— He had no father, says Martin. That'll do now. Drive ahead.

— Whose God? says the citizen.

— Well, his uncle was a jew, says he. Your God was a jew. Christ was a jew like me.

Gob, the citizen made a plunge back into the shop.

fdv: " Cusack made one bound in:
-- By Jesus, says he, I'll brain the bloody jewman for using the holy name. Give us that biscuit tin here. By Jesus, I will. Give it here.
God there was meila murder.
-- Stop! Stop! says Alf
However the jarvey began lashing the bloody nag and the street arabs began to peg cabbage stumps, yelling like blazes.
-- Three cheers for the jew's droppings!
-- Get your hair cut."

— By Jesus, says he, I'll brain that bloody jewman for using the holy name. By Jesus, I'll crucify him so I will. Give us that biscuitbox here.

early note: 6:27 "Cycl = lanceur des roches"

— Stop! Stop! says Joe.

A large and appreciative gathering of friends and acquaintances from the metropolis and greater Dublin assembled in their thousands to bid farewell to




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