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 million-candled 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. You could fell an elmtree 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 hogglebully itself and most fiefty 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 MacMagnus MacCawley can take you off to the pure perfection and Leatherbags Reynolds tries your shuffle and cut. But as Hopkins and Hopkins puts it, you were the rale eggynaggy and a kis to tilly up. We calls him the journeyall Buggaloffs since he went Jerusalemfaring 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, falconplumes 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 headboddylwatcher of the chempel of Isid, Totumcalmum, 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 Christpatrick’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. As popular as when Belly the First was keng and his members met in the Diet of Man. Coughings all over the sanctuary, bad scrant to me aunt Florenza. The horn for breakfast, one o’gong for lunch and dinnerchime, the same shop slop in the window, Jacob’s lettercrackers and Dr Tipple’s ViCocoa and the Eswaurds’ desippated soup beside Mother Seagull’s Syrup. Coal’s short but we’ve plenty of bog in the yard. Meat took a drop when Reilly-Parsons failed. But barley’s up again, begrained to it! The lads is attending school nessons regular, sir. Spelling beesknees with hathatansy and turning out tables by mudapplication. All for the books and never pegging smashers after Tom Bowe-Glassarse or Timmy the Tosser. ’Tisraely the truth! Now isn’t it, roman pathoriks? You were the doublejoynted janitor the morning they were delivered and you’ll be a grandfer yet entirely when the ritehand seizes what the lovearm knows. Kevin’s just a doat with his cherub cheek and his little lamp and schoolbelt and bag of knicks, chalking oghres on walls and 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.
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