Joyce took 100+ allusions to Ancient Egyptian funeral practices from Budge's Book of the Dead. (Like the stuff from Islam and Buddhism, they seem like afterthoughts.)
"honey is the holiest... wax" [Swift on Aesop on spiders' poison vs bees' 'sweetness and light']
[♬ calumny... spreads]
[♬ Fintan Lalors]
(is there a monument somewhere discolored by palmsweat?)
"bowed... paddyplanters"; "the millioncandled eye of Tuskar"
FDV: "The menhere's always talking of you. The grand old Gunne, they do be saying, that was a planter for you! He's duddandgunne now but peace to his great limbs with the long rest of him!"
mysteries: pennydirts and dodgemyeyes, Doctor Faherty, gooden, chepped, planter, spicer, duddandgunne
mysteries: pennydirts and dodgemyeyes, Doctor Faherty, gooden, chepped, planter, spicer, duddandgunne
[3:17-5:13]
I.1: 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29
And it isn't our spittle we'll stint you of,
ReplyDeleteis it, druids?
Not shabbty little imagettes,
pennydirts and dodgemyeyes you buy in the soottee stores.
But offerings of the field.
Mieliodories that Doctor Faherty, the madison man, taught to gooden you.
Poppypap's a passport out.
And honey is the holiest thing ever was,
hive, comb and earwax, the food for glory
(mind you keep the pot
or your nectar cup may yield too light!),
and some goat's milk, sir,
like the maid used to bring you.
Your fame is spreading like Basilico's ointment
since the Fintan Lalors piped you overborder
and there's whole households beyond the Bothnians
and they calling names after you.
The menhere's always talking of you,
sitting around on the pig's cheeks
under the sacred rooftree,
over the bowls of memory
where every hollow holds a hallow,
with a pledge till the drengs, in the Salmon House.
And admiring to our supershillelagh
where the palmsweat on high
is the mark of your manument.
All the toethpicks ever Eirenesians chewed on
are chips chepped from that battery block.
If you were bowed and soild
and letdown itself from the oner of the load
it was that paddyplanters might pack up plenty,
and when you were undone in every point
fore the laps of goddesses
you showed our labourlasses how to free was easy.
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 millioncandled 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.