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and joy

      He was fafafather of all schemes for to bother us

      Slow coaches and immaculate contraceptives for the populace,

      Mare’s milk for the sick, seven dry Sundays a week,

      Openair love and religion’s reform,

      (Chorus) And religious reform,

       Hideous in form.

      Arrah, why, says you, couldn’t he manage it?

      I’ll go bail, my fine dairyman darling,

      Like the bumping bull of the Cassidys

      All your butter is in your horns.

      (Chorus) His butter is in his horns.

       Butter his horns!

      (Repeat) Hurrah there, Hosty, frosty Hosty, change that shirt on ye,

      Rhyme the rann, the king of all ranns!

      Balbaccio, balbuccio!

      We had chaw chaw chops, chairs, chewing gum, the chickenpox and china chambers Universally provided by this soffsoaping salesman.

      [p.046] Small wonder He’ll Cheat E’erawan our local lads nicknamed him When Chimpden first took the floor

      (Chorus) With his bucketshop store

       Down Bargainweg, Lower.

      So snug he was in his hotel premises sumptuous

      But soon we’ll bonfire all his trash, tricks and trumpery

      And’tis short till sheriff Clancy’ll be winding up his unlimited company

      With the bailiff’s bom at the door,

      (Chorus) Bimbam at the door.

       Then he’ll bum no more.

      Sweet bad luck on the waves washed to our island

      The hooker of that hammerfast viking

      And Gall’s curse on the day when Eblana bay

      Saw his black and tan man-o’-war.

      (Chorus) Saw his man-o’-war.

       On the harbour bar.

      Where from? roars Poolbeg. Cookingha’pence, he bawls Donnez-moi scampitle, wick an wipin’fampiny Fingal Mac Oscar Onesine Bargearse Boniface

      Thok’s min gammelhole Norveegickers moniker

      Og as ay are at gammelhore Norveegickers cod.

      (Chorus) A Norwegian camel old cod.

       He is, begod.

      Lift it, Hosty, lift it, ye devil ye! up with the rann, the rhyming rann!

      It was during some fresh water garden pumping

      Or, according to the Nursing Mirror, while admiring the monkeys

      That our heavyweight heathen Humpharey

      Made bold a maid to woo

      (Chorus) Woohoo, what’ll she doo!

       The general lost her maidenloo!

      [p.047] He ought to blush for himself, the old hayheaded philosopher, For to go and shove himself that way on top of her.

      Begob, he’s the crux of the catalogue

      Of our antediluvial zoo,

      (Chorus) Messrs. Billing and Coo.

       Noah’s larks, good as noo.

      He was joulting by Wellinton’s monument

      Our rotorious hippopopotamuns

      When some bugger let down the backtrap of the omnibus

      And he caught his death of fusiliers,

      (Chorus) With his rent in his rears.

       Give him six years.

      ’Tis sore pity for his innocent poor children

      But look out for his missus legitimate!

      When that frew gets a grip of old Earwicker

      Won’t there be earwigs on the green?

      (Chorus) Big earwigs on the green,

       The largest ever you seen.

      Suffoclose! Shikespower! Seudodanto! Anonymoses!

      Then we’ll have a free trade Gaels’ band and mass meeting

      For to sod the brave son of Scandiknavery.

      And we’ll bury him down in Oxmanstown

      Along with the devil and Danes,

      (Chorus) With the deaf and dumb Danes,

       And all their remains.

      And not all the king’s men nor his horses

      Will resurrect his corpus

      For there’s no true spell in Connacht or hell

      (bis) That’s able to raise a Cain.

3

      [p.048] Chest Cee! ’Sdense! Corpo di barragio! you spoof of visibility in a freakfog, of mixed sex cases among goats, hill cat and plain mousey, Bigamy Bob and his old Shanvocht! The Blackfriars treacle plaster outrage be liddled! Therewith was released in that kingsrick of Humidia a poisoning volume of cloud barrage indeed. Yet all they who heard or redelivered are now with that family of bards and Vergobretas himself and the crowd of Caraculacticors as much no more as be they not yet now or had they then notever been. Canbe in some future we shall presently here amid those zouave players of Inkermann the mime mumming the mick and his nick miming their maggies, Hilton St Just (Mr Frank Smith), Ivanne Ste Austelle (Mr J. F. Jones), Coleman of Lucan taking four parts, a choir of the O’Daley O’Doyles doublesixing the chorus in Fenn Mac Call and the Seven Feeries of Loch Neach, Galloper Troppler and Hurleyquinn the zitherer of the past with his merrymen all, zimzim, zimzim. Of the persins sin this Eyrawyggla saga (which, thorough readable to int from and, is from tubb to buttom all falsetissues, antilibellous and nonactionable and this applies to its whole wholume) of poor Osti-Frosti, described as quite a musical genius in a small way and the owner of an exceedingly niced ear, with tenorist voice to match, not alone, but a very major poet of the poorly meritary order (he began Tuonisonian but worked his passage up as far as the we-all-hang-together Animandovites) no one end is known. If they [p.049] whistled him before he had curtains up they are whistling him still after his curtain’s doom’s doom. Ei fù. His husband, poor old A’Hara (Okaroff?) crestfallen by things and down at heels at the time, they squeak, accepted the (Zassnoch!) ardree’s shilling at the conclusion of the Crimean war and, having flown his wild geese, alohned in crowds to warnder on like Shuley Luney, enlisted in Tyrone’s horse, the Irish whites, and soldiered a bit with Wolsey under the assumed name of Blanco Fusilovna Bucklovitch (spurious) after which the cawer and the marble halls of Pump Court Columbarium, the home of the old seakings, looked upon each other and queth their haven evermore for it transpires that on the other side of the water it came about that on the field of Vasileff’s Cornix inauspiciously with his unit he perished, saying, this papal leafless to old chap give, rawl chawclates for mouther-in-louth. Booil. Poor old dear Paul Horan, to satisfy his literary as well as his criminal aspirations, at the suggestion thrown out by the doomster in loquacity lunacy, so says the Dublin Intelligence, was thrown into a Ridley’s for inmates in the northern counties. Under the name of Orani he may have been the utility man of the troupe capable of sustaining long parts at short notice. He was. Sordid Sam, a dour decent deblancer, the unwashed, haunted always by his ham, the unwished, at a word from Israfel the Summoner, passed away painlessly after life’s upsomdowns one hallowe’en night, ebbrous and in the state of nature, propelled from Behind into the great Beyond by footblows

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