[here's a chronological series of mentions of the Four, looking for patterns in how they were described... and slowly differentiated]
The Four Waves of Ireland
the universities of killorcure, kill-them-all, killeachother, killkelly-on-the-Flure
the four modes of history, past, present, absent and future
inefficiency in backscratching,
too for having broken wind from behind without having first made a request in writing on stamped foolscap paper,
three for having attempted hunish familiarities after a meal decomposed crab,
four on account of the general appearance of his face
the Four Waves of Erin
the universities of Killorcure, Kill-them-all, Killeachother, Killkelly-on-the-Flure
one for inefficiency in backscratching, two for having broken rerewind without having first made a request in writing on stamped foolscap paper, three for having attempted hunnish familiarities after a meal of decomposed crab, four on account of his general cast of countenance
the elderly Waves of Erin,
the big four
old Tom Gregory... old Phelim O' Hogan... old Jeremy... old Jeff O'Gorman
Matt and Marcus... Luke and Johnny MacDougall
poor Matt Gregory... and Gregory and the others
four dear old heladies
poor Marcus Lyons and poor Johnny
four saltwater widowers
the four trinity colleges Killorcure and Killthemall and Killeachother and Kilkelly-on-the-Flure
the four great history colleges
Roman history past and present and present and absent and past and present and future
Poor Tom Tarpey and the four shehusbands the four waves
Poor Johnny MacDougall and the four masters because she was backscratching all divorced by their four master and poor Marcus Powerscourt by decree absolute because he broke wind in the pew and because he forgot to make a request in writing on stamped paper before saying his grace before fish and then there was poor Dion Boucicault all divorced too poor Dion because he attempted to well he ah well now sure we won't be too hard on him attempted some hunnish familiarities after eating a bad crab in the red sea ah dearo dearo dear and where do you leave Matt poor Matt in his grey frock hat all divorced by woman squelch and all on account the appearance of his face poor Matt Gregory.
Poor Martin Cunningham!
four beautiful sisters
the beautiful four sisters
poor Gregory and Johnny
planxty Gregory
old Luke
Anno Domini nostri sancti Jesu Christi
Nine hundred and ninetynine pound sterling in the black bowels of the bank of Ulster.
Braw pennies and good gold pounds, by God, my girleen, 'll prank thee finely
And no damn lout 'll come courting thee or, by the Holy Ghost, there'll be murder!
O come all ye sweet nymphs of Dingle beach to cheer Brinabride from Sybil a - riding
In her curragh of shells of daughter-of-pearl and her silverymoonblue mantle round her!
Crown of the waters, brine on her brow, she'll dance them a jig and jilt them fairly.
Yerra, why would she ride with Sir Sloomysides or the gogram grey barnacle gander?
You'll not be lonesome, Lizzy my love, when your yank is the worst for his steel and his soldiering
Nor wake in winter, widow machree, for you'll have my old Balbriggan surtout.
Wisha, won't you agree now to take me for nothing at all as your own nursetender?
A power of fine fellows died game right enough. But who lives for you?
I had that one long before anyone in this place.
It was of a good Friday too and as I'm given now to understand, she was clean mad gone on me.
Grand goosegreasing we had entirely with an eiderdown picnic to follow
'By the cross of Christ, Mac Dougall' says she after 'but you're the most likable lad that's come my ways yet from the barony of Bohermore'.
the big four the four master waves of Erin
old Matt Gregory and then besides old Matt there was old Marcus Lyons
old Matt Gregory and old Marcus Lyons and old Luke Tarpey
old Johnny MacDougall
Matt and Marcus
Luke and Johnny MacDougall
four big tumblers of woman squash
poor Matt Gregory up and Gregory and up the others
four dear old heladies
poor Marcus Lyons and poor Johnny
four saltwater widowers
the four trinity colleges Killorcure and Killthemall and Killeachother and Kilkelly-on-the-Flure
all history past and present and present and absent and past and present and future
Cornelius Nepo. Nepos. Mnepos. Anumque. umque. Queh?
the four of us and [Mallaly] Lally
Tim Tom Tarpey & Lapoule and the four widowers the four waves
their dear poor shehusbands
Poor Johnny MacDougall & the four masters because he was so slow at backscratching all divorced by their dear faithful and poor Marcus Powerscourt persecuted by everybody he was by decree absolute because he made wind & water and because he forgot to remembore to sign an old paper and hereby make a request to herself in writing on stamped parchment before saying his grace before fish and then there was poor Dion Boucicault all drowned too poor Dion before the world & her husband because he attempted to well he was a bit bad in his heath he said with shingles falling on them he ah well now sure we won't be too hard on him as a presbyterian & he well he went to confession to Mother Evangelist Sweeney well he ah now there were faults on both sides well he attempted some hunnish familiarities after eating a bad crab in the red sea and sure he was deadseasickabed in the hospice for the dying he ah the poor fellow & trying to [...] the nurse's hand & dying ah dearo dearo dear and where do you leave Matt they were all so sorry for poor Matt in his saltwater hat too big for [him] it and his overalls all falling over him in folds sure enough he hadn't the energy to pull them old the matriarch that queenly man sitting there with his head to the west in sight of the poorhouse with his can of tea & two bits of [bacon] brown loaf & dilisk waiting for the end to come God of Heaven when you think of it all divorced by woman squelch and all on account of the dull brown loaf of his mouth watering by act of parliament. So now pass the face for Christ' sake. Amen. and so. And all. Ah God be good to us. Poor Martin Cunningham. Ay. Ay.
up one & up two & up five & up [two] four
Doug and poor Greg
planxty Gregory
poor Mucus
old Luke
Anno Domini: nostri sancti Jesu Christi
Nine hundred and ninetynine pound sterling in the black bowels of the bank of Ulster
Braw pennies, my girleen, and bright gold pounds, by God, 'll prank thee finely
And no damn lout'll come courting thee or by the Holy Ghost there'll be murder!
O come all ye sweet nymphs of Dingle beach to cheer Brinabride from Sybil ariding
In her curragh of shells of daughter-of-pearl and her silverymoonblue mantle round her
Crown of the waters, brine on her brow, she'll dance them a jig and jilt them fairly.
Yerra, why would she bride with sir Sloomysides or the gogram grey barnacle gander?
You'll not be lonesome, Lizzy my love, when your yank is the worse for his soldiering and his steel.
Nor wake in winter, widow machree, for you'll have my old Balbriggan surtout
Wisha, won't you agree now to take me for nothing at all as your own nursetender?
A power of fine fellons died game right enough. but Who lives for you?
I, Dougall, on Aran Saw
Iron night
old Matt Gregory and then besides old Matt there was old Marcus Lyons
old Matt Gregory and old Marcus and old Luke Tarpey... and old Johnny Mac Dougall
when they were all four collegians on the nod, whiteboys and oakboys, peep of day boys and peeping tom boys
Matt and Marcus
the three jolly topers... along with the other fellow
the old connubial men of the sea, Luke and Johnny Mac Dougall
four farback tumblerfuls of woman squash
Johnny. Ah well sure that's the way (up) and it so happened there was poor Matt Gregory (up), their paterfamilias, and (up) the others and now really and (up) truly they were four dear old heladies and really they looked so nice and bespectable with their grey half a tall hat and tailormade frock coat and after that they had their fathomglasses to find out all the fathoms and their half a tall hat just now like the old marquess of Powerscourt, the determined old despot, only for the saltwater or the auctioneer there in front of the place near O'Clery's beside that ancient Dame street where the statue of Mrs Dana O'Connell behind the Trinity college that arranges all the auctions of the valuable colleges. Battersby Sisters, like the auctioneer Battersby Sisters that sells all the emancipated statues and powerscourts, James H. Tickell, the jaypee, off Hoggin Green going to the horse show before the flood along with another fellow and the shoeblacks and the redshanks and plebeians and everyone highstepping to get out of his way and all the tercentenary horses and priesthunters from the Curragh and confusionaries and the authorities over from England and American cattleraiders (so they say) all over in his grey half a tall hat (how do you do, jaypee?) and his gallowglasses to find out all the improper colleges (and how do you do, Mr Dame James? get out of my way!) and all the horsepowers. But now that reminds me of the poor Marcus of Lyons and poor Johnny, the patrician, and what do you think of the four of us and there they were now listening right enough, the four saltwater widowers, and all they could remembore long long ago in the olden times Momonian and Lally when my heart knew no care and after that then there was the official landing of Lady James Casement in the year of the flood 1132 S.O.S. and the christening of Queen Battersby the Fourth according to her grace the bishop, alderwoman J.P. Bishop, Senior, and then there was the drowning of Pharoah and all his pedestrians and they were all completely drowned into the sea, the red sea, and then poor Martin Cunningham, the official out of the castle on pension, when he was completely drowned off Dunleary at that time in the red sea and a lovely mourning paper and thank God there were no more of him. And that now was how it was. Ay, ay! And so he was.
Marcus. And after that, not forgetting, there was the Flemish armada all scattered and all officially drowned there and then on a lovely morning after the universal flood at about eleven thirtytwo (was it?) off the coast of Cunningham and Saint Patrick the anabaptist and Saint Kevin the lacustrian and Powerscourt and Dana our first marents and Lapoleon the equestrian, and all they remembored and then there was the French fleet round about the year of Notre Dame 1132 P.P.C. or so landing from under Madam general Bonaboche in his half a grey traditional hat and after that there he was, so terrestrial, poghuing her scandalous and very wrong, in single combat, under the sycamores and all the gallowsbirds in Arrah-na-Poghue, so silvestrious, near the queen's colleges in 1132 Bride street behind the century man on the door. And then again they used to give the grandest universal lectures (hello, Hibernia!) from sea to sea (Matt speaking!) according to the pictures postcard in the Latimer Roman history of Latimer repeating himself (Marcus Lyons speaking!) to the oceanfuls of collegians green and high classes and the poor scholars and all the old trinitarian senate and saints and sages and the Plymouth brethren nodding and sleeping away there like forgetmenots round their twelve tables in the four trinity colleges of Ulcer, Moonster, Leanstare and Cannought, the four grandest colleges of Killorcure and Killthemall and Killeachother and Killkelly-on-the-Flure. Those were the grandest gynecollege histories (Lucas calling, hold the line!) in the Jane Andersdaughter universary for auld acquaintance sake (this unitarian lady lived to a great age at or in or about No. 1132 or No. 1169 bis Fitzmary Round where she was seen by many and widely liked) for teaching the Fatima Woman history of Fatimiliafamilias repeating herself of the spirit of nature as divinely developed in time by psadatepholomy, the past and present (Johnny Mac Dougall speaking, give me trunks, miss!) and present and absent and past and present and perfect arma virumque romano. Ah, dearo dear! How it all came back to them to hear him there kissling and cuddling her so nefarious before the four of us in his Roman catholic arms by the Cornelius Nepos, Mnepos, Anumque, Umque.
Queh? Quos?
Ah, dearo dearo dear! It was so sorry for all the whole twice two four of us and Lally when he lost part of his half a hat and repeating himself and telling him now to forget the past and contradicting all about Lally and his old fellow the Lagener and all the old drakes ever he had up in the bohereen and the old folks at home and Duignan and Lapole and the grand confarreation and he couldn't stop laughing over Tom Tim Tarpey, the Welshman, and the four middleaged widowers. And now that reminds me not to forget the four of the Welsh waves, leaping laughing, in their half a Roman hat with an ancient Greek gloss on it in Chichester college auction and thank God they were all summarily divorced four years before, so they say, by their dear poor shehusbands in dear byword days and never brought to mind, to see no more the rainwater on the floor but still they parted, raining water laughing, on the best of terms and be forgot which was plainly foretold by their old pilgrim song As I was going to Ballymacarett we fell in with a lout by the name of Peebles as also in another place by their orthodox proverb That old fellow knows milk though he's not used to it latterly. And so they parted. Ay, ay. The good go and the wicked is left over. Ay, ay. Ah, well, sure that's the way. Woman. Squash. Part. Ay, ay. By decree absolute.
Lucas. And O so well they could remembore at that time Mrs Dowager Justice Squelchman in her fullbottom wig and beard, in or aring or around about the year of buy in disgrace 1132 or 1169 or 1798 Y.W.C.A. at the Married Male Familyman's Auctioneers' court in Arrahnacuddle. Poor Johnny of the clan of Dougals, the poor Scotsman, dinna forget, so frightened on account of her fullbottom and the four masters because he was so slow grooming her ladyship instead of backscratching her materfamilias proper like any old methodist, and all divorced according to their dear faithful. Ah now, it was too bad! And poor Mark or Marcus Bowandcoat, the poor old chronometer, all persecuted by everybody by decree absolute because he forgot himself making wind and water and made a mess of all of himself and because he forgot to remember to sign an old morning proxy paper, a request in writing to herself on stamped parchment before saying his grace before fish and then and there and too there was poor Dion Cassius Poosycomb all drowned too before the world and her husband, because it was most improper and most wrong when he attempted to— well, he was shocking bad in his health, he said, with the shingles falling off him— because he— ah, well now, we won't be too hard on him as an old Manx presbyterian, and after that he made his last will and went to confession on his two bare marrowbones to Mother Evangelist Sweeney and he was so sorry, he was really, because he left the bootbutton in the hansom cab and now, tell the truth, there were faults on both sides— well, he attempted (or so they say)— ah, now, forget and forgive, and sure he was only funning with his andrewmartins and his old age coming over him— well, he attempted or, the Connachy, he was tempted to attempt some hunnish familiarities after eating a bad crab in the red ocean and sure he was deadseasickabed (it was really too bad!) her poor old divorced male, in the hospice for the dying and trying to hold the nursetender's hand, (ah, the poor old coax!) and count the buttons and her hand and frown on a bad crab and dying to remembore who made a who a snore. Ah dearo dearo dear!
And where do you leave Matt? They were all so sorry for poorboir Matt in his saltwater hat that she grew all out of, too big for him, of Mnepos and his overalls all falling over her in folds— sure, he hadn't the heart in her to pull them up— poor Matt, the old peregrine matriarch, and a queenly man, sitting there, a family all to himself, under geasa, Themistletocles, on his multilingual tombstone with her face to the wall in sight of the poorhouse, under all the auspices, amid the rattle of hailstorms, with her ivyclad hat and gripping an old pair of curling tongs belonging to Mrs Dana O'Connell to blow his brains with, with his can of tea from Anne Lynch and two cuts of Shackleton's brown loaf and dilisk, waiting for the end to come— God of heaven, when you think of it! Ah ho! It was too bad entirely! All devoured by active parlourmen laudabiliter of woman squelch and all on account of the smell of Shackleton and scratchman and his mouth watering and so now pass the loaf for Christ sake, Amen. And so. And all.
Matt. And loaf. So that was the end. And it can't be helped. Ah, God be good to us! Poor Andrew Martin Cunningham! Ay! Ay!
And still and all at that time they were always thinking (up) and not forgetting about auld lang syne (up) their four hosenbands that were four (up) beautful sister masters, now happily married, and there they were always counting and contradicting every night the lovely mother-of-periwinkle buttons according to the lapper part of their anachronism (up one up two up one up four) and after that there now she was in the end, the deary, the beautfour sisters and that was her modern republican name right enough and they used to be getting up from under at the kookaburra bell ringing all wrong inside of them (come in, come on, you lazy loafs!) all inside their poor old Shandon bellbox (come out to hell, you lazy louts!) so frightened, at all hours every night on their mistletoes, the four old oldsters, when nobody wouldn't even let them rest and getting into their way something barbarous, changing the one wet underdown bed they used to sleep under and putting on their half a hat and falling over all synopticals and a panegyric and repeating themselves, look all round the stool, walk everwhere for a jool to break fire to all the rancers, to collect all and bits of brown, the rathure's evelopmen in spirits of time in all fathom of space and slooping around in a bath slipper and go away to Oldpatrick and see a doctor Walker. And after that so glad they had their night tentacles and there they used to be flapping and cycling around the waists of the ships, as tired as they were, the clipperbuilt and the five fourmasters and Lally and Roe and he telling him before he forgot that one about a goose a love a goldeny egg and Johnny Mac Gory, dear mister John, and all the other analist, the steamships and the women-o'-war, and playing ocean ladies' foursome and their pair of green eyes and peering in, so they say, through the steamy windows into the honeymoon cabins on board the big steamadories made by Fumadory and the saloon ladies' modern toilet chambers lined over prawn silk and rub off the salty catara off a windows and hee hee listening, the poor old quakers, to see all the hunnishmooners and the firstclass ladies enfamillias and shee shee all improper in a lovely mourning toilet under all their familarities, forgetting to say their grace before chambadory so pass the poghue for grace sake, Amen. And all hee hee hee quaking, so fright, and shee shee shaking. Aching. Ay, ay.
And then after that they used to be so forgetful counting motherpeributts (up one up four) to membore her beaufu modern maiden name by the dream. From Greg and Doug on poor Greg and Mat and Mar and Lu and Jo, now happily buried, our four sisters. And there she was now right enough, that lovely sight enough, the girleen bawn asthore as for days galore of planxty Gregory. Egory. Ay, ay.
But sure that reminds me now, like another tellmastory repeating yourself, how they used to be at the end of it all at that time (up) always, tired and all, over their singing (up) the top of the voice of Mamalujo sitting round two by two, the four confederates, (up) the wet air register in Old Man's House with their cold knees and their poor (up) quadrupeds fast asleep and all dolled up for their blankets and materny mufflers and plimsoles and their bowl of brown schackle and milky and clots for a cup of kindest yet with hold take hand and nurse and only touch of eat a lovely munkybown and wait the pinch and prompt poor Mucus Lyons to pass the teeth for choke sake Amensch when it so happen they were all sicamore and by the world forgot since the phlegmish hoopicough for all a possabed after eat a bad cramp and johnny magories and backscrat the poor bedsores and their farthing dip and read a letter or two every night before going to sleep in the twilight, a capitaletter for further auspices on their old one page codex book of old year's eve 1132, M.M.L.J. old style, their Senchus Mor by Mrs Shemans, final buff lunch edition, and Lally through their gangrene spentacles and all the good they did in their time for Roe and O'Mulconry a Conry ap Mul or Lap ap Morion and Buffler ap Matty Mac Gregory for Marcus on Podex by Daddy de Wyer, old bagabroth, and one by one and sing a mamalujo.
And after that now in the future please God all start repeating ourselves and all now united sansfamillias say oremus prayer for auld acquaintance to Peregrine and Michael and Farfassa and Peregrine for navigants at peregrinantibus in all the old and imperial sea and sing a lovasteamadorion in her doaty ducky little blue and roll a hoop and how she ran we never never shall forget and old Luke and Senchus Mor and another more for auld luke syne and she haihaihail her kobbor kohinor sehehet on the praze savohohole shanghai.
Hear, O hear, Iseult la belle! Tristan, sad hero, hear!
Anno Domini nostri sancti Jesu Christi
Nine hundred and ninetynine million pound sterling in the blueblack bowels of the bank of Ulster.
Braw bawbees and good gold pounds, galore, my girleen, a Sunday'll prank thee finely
And no damn lout'll come courting thee or by the mother of the Holy Ghost there'll be murder!
O, come all ye sweet nymphs of Dingle beach to cheer Brinabride queen from Sybil surfriding
In her curragh of shells of daughter of pearl and her silverymoonblue mantle round her.
Crown of the waters, brine on her brow, she'll dance them a jig and jilt them fairly.
Yerra, why would she bide with Sir Sloomysides or the grogram grey barnacle gander?
You won't need be lonesome, Lizzy my love, when your beau gets his glut of cold meat and hot soldiering
Nor wake in winter, widow machree, but snore snug in my old Balbriggan surtout.
Wisha, won't you agree now to take me from the middle, say, of next week on, for the balance of my days, for nothing, (what?) as your own nursetender?
A power of highsteppers died game right enough — but who, acushla, 'll beg coppers for you?
I tossed that one long before anyone.
It was of a wet good Friday too she was ironing and, as I'm given now to understand, she was always mad gone on me.
Grand goosegreasing we had entirely with an allnight eiderdown bed picnic to follow.
By the cross of Cong, says she, rising up Saturday in the twilight from under me, Mick whatever your name is, you're the most likable lad that's come my ways yet from the barony of Bohermore.
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