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Ulysses 

75 

of

 1305 

across the slimy pier at Newhaven. Comment? Rich booty 

you brought back; Le Tutu, five tattered numbers of 

Pantalon Blanc et Culotte Rouge; a blue French telegram, 

curiosity to show: 

—Mother dying come home father. 

The aunt thinks you killed your mother. That’s why 

she won’t. 

Then here’s a health to Mulligan’s aunt 

And I’ll tell you the reason why. 

She always kept things decent in 

The Hannigan famileye. 

His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the 

sand furrows, along by the boulders of the south wall. He 

stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. Gold 

light on sea, on sand, on boulders. The sun is there, the 

slender trees, the lemon houses. 

Paris rawly waking, crude sunlight on her lemon 

streets. Moist pith of farls of bread, the froggreen 

wormwood, her matin incense, court the air. Belluomo 

rises from the bed of his wife’s lover’s wife, the kerchiefed 

housewife is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand. In 

Rodot’s Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled 

beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, 

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their mouths yellowed with the pus of flan breton. Faces of 

Paris men go by, their wellpleased pleasers, curled 

conquistadores. 

Noon slumbers. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes 

through fingers smeared with printer’s ink, sipping his 

green fairy as Patrice his white. About us gobblers fork 

spiced beans down their gullets. Un demi setier! A jet of 

coffee steam from the burnished caldron. She serves me at 

his beck. Il est irlandais. Hollandais? Non fromage. Deux 

irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez ah, oui! She thought you 

wanted a cheese hollandais. Your postprandial, do you 

know that word? Postprandial. There was a fellow I knew 

once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to call it his 

postprandial. Well: slainte! Around the slabbed tables the 

tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. His breath 

hangs over our saucestained plates, the green fairy’s fang 

thrusting between his lips. Of Ireland, the Dalcassians, of 

hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, 

pimander, good shepherd of men. To yoke me as his 

yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. You’re your 

father’s son. I know the voice. His fustian shirt, 

sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his secrets. 

M. Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, know what he 

called queen Victoria? Old hag with the yellow teeth. 

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Vieille ogresse with the dents jaunes. Maud Gonne, beautiful 

woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how 

he died? Licentious men. The froeken, bonne a tout faire, 

who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala. Moi faire, 

she said, Tous les messieurs. Not this Monsieur, I said. Most 

licentious custom. Bath a most private thing. I wouldn’t 

let my brother, not even my own brother, most lascivious 

thing. Green eyes, I see you. Fang, I feel. Lascivious 

people. 

The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns 

clear. Loose tobaccoshreds catch fire: a flame and acrid 

smoke light our corner. Raw facebones under his peep of 

day boy’s hat. How the head centre got away, authentic 

version. Got up as a young bride, man, veil, 

orangeblossoms, drove out the road to Malahide. Did, 

faith. Of lost leaders, the betrayed, wild escapes. Disguises, 

clutched at, gone, not here. 

Spurned lover. I was a strapping young gossoon at that 

time, I tell you. I’ll show you my likeness one day. I was, 

faith. Lover, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard 

Burke, tanist of his sept, under the walls of Clerkenwell 

and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them 

upward in the fog. Shattered glass and toppling masonry. 

In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris, unsought by any save 

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Ulysses 

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of

 1305 

by me. Making his day’s stations, the dingy printingcase, 

his three taverns, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night 

in, rue de la Goutte-d’Or, damascened with flyblown faces 

of the gone. Loveless, landless, wifeless. She is quite nicey 

comfy without her outcast man, madame in rue Git-le-

Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers. Peachy cheeks, a 

zebra skirt, frisky as a young thing’s. Spurned and 

undespairing. Tell Pat you saw me, won’t you? I wanted 

to get poor Pat a job one time. Mon fils, soldier of France. 

I taught him to sing The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring 

blades. Know that old lay? I taught Patrice that. Old 

Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow’s castle on the Nore. 

Goes like this. O, O. He takes me, Napper Tandy, by the 

hand. 

O, O THE BOYS OF 

KILKENNY ... 

Weak wasting hand on mine. They have forgotten 

Kevin Egan, not he them. Remembering thee, O Sion. 

He had come nearer the edge of the sea and wet sand 

slapped his boots. The new air greeted him, harping in 

wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Here, 

I am not walking out to the Kish lightship, am I? He stood 

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