Episode 11: Sirens (Literary technique: Fuga per canonem (fugue or polyphony by rule: weaving of various voices and motifs in counterpoint to one another). Art: Music. Time: 38 40 pm. Place: Ormond Hotel



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Ben Dollard sings The Croppy Boy
--QUI SDEGNO, Ben, said Father Cowley.
--No, Ben, Tom Kernan interfered. THE CROPPY BOY. Our native Doric.
--Ay do, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. Good men and true.
--Do, do, they begged in one.
I'll go. Here, Pat, return. Come. He came, he came, he did not stay.

To me. How much?
--What key? Six sharps?
--F sharp major, Ben Dollard said.
Bob Cowley's outstretched talons griped the black deepsounding chords.
Must go prince Bloom told Richie prince. No, Richie said. Yes, must.

Got money somewhere. He's on for a razzle backache spree. Much? He

seehears lipspeech. One and nine. Penny for yourself. Here. Give him

twopence tip. Deaf, bothered. But perhaps he has wife and family waiting,

waiting Patty come home. Hee hee hee hee. Deaf wait while they wait.
But wait. But hear. Chords dark. Lugugugubrious. Low. In a cave of

the dark middle earth. Embedded ore. Lumpmusic.
The voice of dark age, of unlove, earth's fatigue made grave approach

and painful, come from afar, from hoary mountains, called on good men

and true. The priest he sought. With him would he speak a word.
Tap.
Ben Dollard's voice. Base barreltone. Doing his level best to say it.

Croak of vast manless moonless womoonless marsh. Other comedown. Big

ships' chandler's business he did once. Remember: rosiny ropes, ships'

lanterns. Failed to the tune of ten thousand pounds. Now in the Iveagh

home. Cubicle number so and so. Number one Bass did that for him.
The priest's at home. A false priest's servant bade him welcome. Step

in. The holy father. With bows a traitor servant. Curlycues of chords.
Ruin them. Wreck their lives. Then build them cubicles to end their

days in. Hushaby. Lullaby. Die, dog. Little dog, die.
The voice of warning, solemn warning, told them the youth had

entered a lonely hall, told them how solemn fell his footsteps there, told

them the gloomy chamber, the vested priest sitting to shrive.
Decent soul. Bit addled now. Thinks he'll win in ANSWERS, poets'

picture puzzle. We hand you crisp five pound note. Bird sitting hatching

in a nest. Lay of the last minstrel he thought it was. See blank tee what

domestic animal? Tee dash ar most courageous mariner. Good voice he has

still. No eunuch yet with all his belongings.
Listen. Bloom listened. Richie Goulding listened. And by the door

deaf Pat, bald Pat, tipped Pat, listened. The chords harped slower.





[“Good men and true! In this house who dwell,

To a stranger bouchal [Irish: boy] I pray you tell

Is the priest at home? Or may he be seen?

I would speak a word with Father Green.”
The Priest’s at home, boy, and may be seen:

Tis easy speaking with Father Green;



But you must wait, till I go and see

If the holy father alone may be.”
The youth has entered an empty hall—

What a lonely sound has his light footfall!

And the gloomy chamber’s still an bare,

With a vested Priest in a lonely chair.
The youth has knelt to tell his sins;

Nomine Dei,” the youth begins:



At “mei culpa” he beats his breast,

And in broken murmurs he speaks the rest.
At the siege of Ross did my father fall,

And at Gorey my loving brothers all,

I alone am left of my name and race,

I will go to Wexford and take their place.
I cursed three times since last Easter day—

At mass-time once I went to play;

I passed the churchyard one day in haste,

And forgot to pray for my mother’s rest.
I bear no grudge against living thing;

But I love my country above the king.

Now, Father! Bless me, and let me go

To die, if God has ordained it so.”
The Priest said nought, but a rustling noise

Made the youth look above in wild surprise;

The robes were off, and in scarlet there

Sat a yeoman captain with fiery glare.
With a fiery glare and with fury hoarse,

Instead of blessing, he breathed a curse:—

“’Twas a good thought, boy, to come here and shrive,



For one short hour is your time to live.
Upon yon river three tenders float,

The Priest’s in one, if he isn’t shot—

We hold his house for our Lord and King,

And Amen! Says I, may all traitors swing!”
At Geneva Barrack that young man died,

And at Passage they have his body laid.

Good people who live in peace and joy,

Breathe a prayer and a tear fro the Croppy Boy.]




Bloom thinks as he hears the song. Sound of Boylan’s knock occurs.
The voice of penance and of grief came slow, embellished, tremulous.

Ben's contrite beard confessed. IN NOMINE DOMINI, in God's name he knelt.

He beat his hand upon his breast, confessing: MEA CULPA.
Latin again. That holds them like birdlime. Priest with the

communion corpus for those women. Chap in the mortuary, coffin or

coffey, CORPUSNOMINE. Wonder where that rat is by now. Scrape.
Tap.
They listened. Tankards and miss Kennedy. George Lidwell, eyelid

well expressive, fullbusted satin. Kernan. Si.
The sighing voice of sorrow sang. His sins. Since Easter he had

cursed three times. You bitch's bast. And once at masstime he had gone to

play. Once by the churchyard he had passed and for his mother's rest he

had not prayed. A boy. A croppy boy.
Bronze, listening, by the beerpull gazed far away. Soulfully. Doesn't

half know I'm. Molly great dab at seeing anyone looking.
Bronze gazed far sideways. Mirror there. Is that best side of her face?

They always know. Knock at the door. Last tip to titivate.
Cockcarracarra.
What do they think when they hear music? Way to catch rattlesnakes.

Night Michael Gunn gave us the box. Tuning up. Shah of Persia liked that

best. Remind him of home sweet home. Wiped his nose in curtain too.

Custom his country perhaps. That's music too. Not as bad as it sounds.

Tootling. Brasses braying asses through uptrunks. Doublebasses helpless,

gashes in their sides. Woodwinds mooing cows. Semigrand open crocodile

music hath jaws. Woodwind like Goodwin's name.
She looked fine. Her crocus dress she wore lowcut, belongings on

show. Clove her breath was always in theatre when she bent to ask a

question. Told her what Spinoza says in that book of poor papa's.

Hypnotised, listening. Eyes like that. She bent. Chap in dresscircle

staring down into her with his operaglass for all he was worth. Beauty

of music you must hear twice. Nature woman half a look. God made the

country man the tune. Met him pike hoses. Philosophy. O rocks!
All gone. All fallen. At the siege of Ross his father, at Gorey all his

brothers fell. To Wexford, we are the boys of Wexford, he would. Last of

his name and race.
I too. Last of my race. Milly young student. Well, my fault perhaps.

No son. Rudy. Too late now. Or if not? If not? If still?
He bore no hate.
Hate. Love. Those are names. Rudy. Soon I am old. Big Ben his voice

unfolded. Great voice Richie Goulding said, a flush struggling in his

pale, to Bloom soon old. But when was young?
Ireland comes now. My country above the king. She listens. Who

fears to speak of nineteen four? Time to be shoving. Looked enough.
--BLESS ME, FATHER, Dollard the croppy cried. BLESS ME AND LET ME GO.
Tap.
Bloom looked, unblessed to go. Got up to kill: on eighteen bob a

week. Fellows shell out the dibs. Want to keep your weathereye open. Those

girls, those lovely. By the sad sea waves. Chorusgirl's romance. Letters

read out for breach of promise. From Chickabiddy's owny Mumpsypum.

Laughter in court. Henry. I never signed it. The lovely name you.
Low sank the music, air and words. Then hastened. The false priest

rustling soldier from his cassock. A yeoman captain. They know it all by

heart. The thrill they itch for. Yeoman cap.
Tap. Tap.
Thrilled she listened, bending in sympathy to hear.
Blank face. Virgin should say: or fingered only. Write something on

it: page. If not what becomes of them? Decline, despair. Keeps them young.

Even admire themselves. See. Play on her. Lip blow. Body of white woman,

a flute alive. Blow gentle. Loud. Three holes, all women. Goddess I didn't

see. They want it. Not too much polite. That's why he gets them. Gold in

your pocket, brass in your face. Say something. Make her hear. With look

to look. Songs without words. Molly, that hurdygurdy boy. She knew he

meant the monkey was sick. Or because so like the Spanish. Understand

animals too that way. Solomon did. Gift of nature.
Ventriloquise. My lips closed. Think in my stom. What?
Will? You? I. Want. You. To.
With hoarse rude fury the yeoman cursed, swelling in apoplectic

bitch's bastard. A good thought, boy, to come. One hour's your time to

live, your last.
Tap. Tap.
Thrill now. Pity they feel. To wipe away a tear for martyrs that want

to, dying to, die. For all things dying, for all things born. Poor Mrs

Purefoy. Hope she's over. Because their wombs.
A liquid of womb of woman eyeball gazed under a fence of lashes,

calmly, hearing. See real beauty of the eye when she not speaks. On yonder

river. At each slow satiny heaving bosom's wave (her heaving embon) red

rose rose slowly sank red rose. Heartbeats: her breath: breath that is

life. And all the tiny tiny fernfoils trembled of maidenhair.
But look. The bright stars fade. O rose! Castile. The morn. Ha.

Lidwell. For him then not for. Infatuated. I like that? See her

from here though. Popped corks, splashes of beerfroth, stacks of empties.
As Lydia fondles the beer pull and the song reaches its climax, Bloom departs.
On the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand, lightly, plumply, leave

it to my hands. All lost in pity for croppy. Fro, to: to, fro: over the

polished knob (she knows his eyes, my eyes, her eyes) her thumb and finger

passed in pity: passed, reposed and, gently touching, then slid so

smoothly, slowly down, a cool firm white enamel baton protruding through

their sliding ring.
With a cock with a carra.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I hold this house. Amen. He gnashed in fury. Traitors swing.
The chords consented. Very sad thing. But had to be. Get out before

the end. Thanks, that was heavenly. Where's my hat. Pass by her. Can

leave that Freeman. Letter I have. Suppose she were the? No. Walk,

walk, walk. Like Cashel Boylo Connoro Coylo Tisdall Maurice Tisntdall

Farrell. Waaaaaaalk.
Bloom, gaseous, walks westward along Ormond Quay toward the postoffice at 34 Ormond Quay Upper, the same building as Reuben J. Dodd’s office.
Well, I must be. Are you off? Yrfmstbyes. Blmstup. O'er ryehigh blue.

Ow. Bloom stood up. Soap feeling rather sticky behind. Must have

sweated: music. That lotion, remember. Well, so long. High grade. Card

inside. Yes.
By deaf Pat in the doorway straining ear Bloom passed.
At Geneva barrack that young man died. At Passage was his body

laid. Dolor! O, he dolores! The voice of the mournful chanter called to

dolorous prayer.
By rose, by satiny bosom, by the fondling hand, by slops, by empties,

by popped corks, greeting in going, past eyes and maidenhair, bronze and

faint gold in deepseashadow, went Bloom, soft Bloom, I feel so lonely

Bloom.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Pray for him, prayed the bass of Dollard. You who hear in peace. Breathe

a prayer, drop a tear, good men, good people. He was the croppy boy.
Scaring eavesdropping boots croppy bootsboy Bloom in the Ormond

hallway heard the growls and roars of bravo, fat backslapping, their boots

all treading, boots not the boots the boy. General chorus off for a swill

to wash it down. Glad I avoided.
--Come on, Ben, Simon Dedalus cried. By God, you're as good as ever you

were.
--Better, said Tomgin Kernan. Most trenchant rendition of that ballad,

upon my soul and honour It is.
--Lablache, said Father Cowley.
Ben Dollard bulkily cachuchad towards the bar, mightily praisefed and all

big roseate, on heavyfooted feet, his gouty fingers nakkering castagnettes

in the air.
Big Benaben Dollard. Big Benben. Big Benben.
Rrr.
And deepmoved all, Simon trumping compassion from foghorn nose,

all laughing they brought him forth, Ben Dollard, in right good cheer.
--You're looking rubicund, George Lidwell said.
Miss Douce composed her rose to wait.
--Ben machree, said Mr Dedalus, clapping Ben's fat back shoulderblade.

Fit as a fiddle only he has a lot of adipose tissue concealed about his

person.
Rrrrrrrsss.
--Fat of death, Simon, Ben Dollard growled.
Richie rift in the lute alone sat: Goulding, Collis, Ward. Uncertainly

he waited. Unpaid Pat too.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Miss Mina Kennedy brought near her lips to ear of tankard one.
--Mr Dollard, they murmured low.
--Dollard, murmured tankard.
Tank one believed: miss Kenn when she: that doll he was: she doll:

the tank.
He murmured that he knew the name. The name was familiar to him,

that is to say. That was to say he had heard the name of. Dollard, was it?

Dollard, yes.
Yes, her lips said more loudly, Mr Dollard. He sang that song lovely,

murmured Mina. Mr Dollard. And THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER was a lovely

song. Mina loved that song. Tankard loved the song that Mina.
'Tis the last rose of summer dollard left bloom felt wind wound round

inside.
Gassy thing that cider: binding too. Wait. Postoffice near Reuben J's

one and eightpence too. Get shut of it. Dodge round by Greek street. Wish

I hadn't promised to meet. Freer in air. Music. Gets on your nerves.

Beerpull. Her hand that rocks the cradle rules the. Ben Howth. That rules

the world.
Far. Far. Far. Far.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Up the quay went Lionelleopold, naughty Henry with letter for

Mady, with sweets of sin with frillies for Raoul with met him pike hoses

went Poldy on.
Tap blind walked tapping by the tap the curbstone tapping, tap by tap.
Cowley, he stuns himself with it: kind of drunkenness. Better give

way only half way the way of a man with a maid. Instance enthusiasts. All

ears. Not lose a demisemiquaver. Eyes shut. Head nodding in time. Dotty.

You daren't budge. Thinking strictly prohibited. Always talking shop.

Fiddlefaddle about notes.
All a kind of attempt to talk. Unpleasant when it stops because you

never know exac. Organ in Gardiner street. Old Glynn fifty quid a year.

Queer up there in the cockloft, alone, with stops and locks and keys.

Seated all day at the organ. Maunder on for hours, talking to himself or

the other fellow blowing the bellows. Growl angry, then shriek cursing

(want to have wadding or something in his no don't she cried), then all of

a soft sudden wee little wee little pipy wind.
Pwee! A wee little wind piped eeee. In Bloom's little wee.
--Was he? Mr Dedalus said, returning with fetched pipe. I was with him

this morning at poor little Paddy Dignam's ...
--Ay, the Lord have mercy on him.
--By the bye there's a tuningfork in there on the ...
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
--The wife has a fine voice. Or had. What? Lidwell asked.
--O, that must be the tuner, Lydia said to Simonlionel first I saw, forgot

it when he was here.
Blind he was she told George Lidwell second I saw. And played so

exquisitely, treat to hear. Exquisite contrast: bronzelid, minagold.
--Shout! Ben Dollard shouted, pouring. Sing out!
--'lldo! cried Father Cowley.
Rrrrrr.
I feel I want ...
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap
--Very, Mr Dedalus said, staring hard at a headless sardine.
Under the sandwichbell lay on a bier of bread one last, one lonely, last

sardine of summer. Bloom alone.
--Very, he stared. The lower register, for choice.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Bloom went by Barry's. Wish I could. Wait. That wonderworker if I

had. Twentyfour solicitors in that one house. Counted them. Litigation.

Love one another. Piles of parchment. Messrs Pick and Pocket have power

of attorney. Goulding, Collis, Ward.
But for example the chap that wallops the big drum. His vocation:

Mickey Rooney's band. Wonder how it first struck him. Sitting at home

after pig's cheek and cabbage nursing it in the armchair. Rehearsing his

band part. Pom. Pompedy. Jolly for the wife. Asses' skins. Welt them

through life, then wallop after death. Pom. Wallop. Seems to be what you

call yashmak or I mean kismet. Fate.
Tap. Tap. A stripling, blind, with a tapping cane came taptaptapping

by Daly's window where a mermaid hair all streaming (but he couldn't see)

blew whiffs of a mermaid (blind couldn't), mermaid, coolest whiff of all.
Instruments. A blade of grass, shell of her hands, then blow. Even

comb and tissuepaper you can knock a tune out of. Molly in her shift in

Lombard street west, hair down. I suppose each kind of trade made its own,

don't you see? Hunter with a horn. Haw. Have you the? CLOCHE. SONNEZ LA.

Shepherd his pipe. Pwee little wee. Policeman a whistle. Locks and keys!

Sweep! Four o'clock's all's well! Sleep! All is lost now. Drum? Pompedy.

Wait. I know. Towncrier, bumbailiff. Long John. Waken the dead. Pom.

Dignam. Poor little NOMINEDOMINE. Pom. It is music. I mean of course it's

all pom pom pom very much what they call DA CAPO. Still you can hear. As

we march, we march along, march along. Pom.
I must really. Fff. Now if I did that at a banquet. Just a question of

custom shah of Persia. Breathe a prayer, drop a tear. All the same he must

have been a bit of a natural not to see it was a yeoman cap. Muffled up.

Wonder who was that chap at the grave in the brown macin. O, the whore

of the lane!
Bloom passes Barry’s (J.M. Barry & Co, tailors and outfitters) at 12 Ormond Quay Upper, an address of 24 solicitors’ offices. Bloom recognizes a whore coming toward him. He pauses at Lionel Marks’s, antique dealer, 16 Ormond Quay Upper, to let her pass.
A frowsy whore with black straw sailor hat askew came glazily in the

day along the quay towards Mr Bloom. When first he saw that form

endearing? Yes, it is. I feel so lonely. Wet night in the lane. Horn. Who

had the? Heehaw shesaw. Off her beat here. What is she? Hope she. Psst!

Any chance of your wash. Knew Molly. Had me decked. Stout lady does be

with you in the brown costume. Put you off your stroke, that. Appointment

we made knowing we'd never, well hardly ever. Too dear too near to home

sweet home. Sees me, does she? Looks a fright in the day. Face like dip.

Damn her. O, well, she has to live like the rest. Look in here.
In Lionel Marks's antique saleshop window haughty Henry Lionel

Leopold dear Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom envisaged

battered candlesticks melodeon oozing maggoty blowbags. Bargain: six bob.

Might learn to play. Cheap. Let her pass. Course everything is dear if

you don't want it. That's what good salesman is. Make you buy what he

wants to sell. Chap sold me the Swedish razor he shaved me with. Wanted

to charge me for the edge he gave it. She's passing now. Six bob.
Must be the cider or perhaps the burgund.
Near bronze from anear near gold from afar they chinked their clinking

glasses all, brighteyed and gallant, before bronze Lydia's tempting

last rose of summer, rose of Castile. First Lid, De, Cow, Ker, Doll, a

fifth: Lidwell, Si Dedalus, Bob Cowley, Kernan and big Ben Dollard.
Tap. A youth entered a lonely Ormond hall.
Bloom viewed a gallant pictured hero in Lionel Marks's window. Robert

Emmet's last words. Seven last words. Of Meyerbeer that is.
--True men like you men.
--Ay, ay, Ben.
--Will lift your glass with us.
They lifted.
Tschink. Tschunk.
Tip. An unseeing stripling stood in the door. He saw not bronze. He

saw not gold. Nor Ben nor Bob nor Tom nor Si nor George nor tanks nor

Richie nor Pat. Hee hee hee hee. He did not see.



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