Assigned reading (1½ pars [] plus 115 notes) [secondary] [McH]
We switch from 3rd-person 'he' to 2nd-person 'you', and a cluster of allusions to Buddha and Buddha's horse?! (Reincarnating?)
[♬ the foggy dew]
FDV: "He sweated his crowd and urned his dead and made louse for us and begad he did till his earsend to earsend. And would again could whispring grassies wake him. Anam a dhoul! did ye drink me dead? Now be aisy, good Mr Finnimore, sir! And take your laysure and don't be walking abroad, sir."
[1:20-3:17]
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He dug in and dug out by the skill of his tilth
ReplyDeletefor 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,
Unfru-chikda-uru-wukru,
that mighty liberator,
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!
Usqueadbaugham!
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, clankatachankata,
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,
bloodeagle waistcoat and all,
remembering your shapes and sizes,
on the pillow of your babycurls,
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 Nobucketnozzler
and the Guinnghis Khan.
And we'll be coming here, the ombre players,
to rake your gravel
and bringing you presents,
won't we, fenians?