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

Parody 1: Legal document in civil suit for nonpayment of debt

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Parody 1: Legal document in civil suit for nonpayment of debt.
For nonperishable goods bought of Moses Herzog, of 13 Saint

Kevin's parade in the city of Dublin, Wood quay ward, merchant,

hereinafter called the vendor, and sold and delivered to Michael E.

Geraghty, esquire, of 29 Arbour hill in the city of Dublin, Arran quay

ward, gentleman, hereinafter called the purchaser, videlicet, five pounds

avoirdupois of first choice tea at three shillings and no pence per pound

avoirdupois and three stone avoirdupois of sugar, crushed crystal, at

threepence per pound avoirdupois, the said purchaser debtor to the said

vendor of one pound five shillings and sixpence sterling for value

received which amount shall be paid by said purchaser to said vendor in

weekly instalments every seven calendar days of three shillings and no

pence sterling: and the said nonperishable goods shall not be pawned or

pledged or sold or otherwise alienated by the said purchaser but shall be

and remain and be held to be the sole and exclusive property of the said

vendor to be disposed of at his good will and pleasure until the said

amount shall have been duly paid by the said purchaser to the said vendor

in the manner herein set forth as this day hereby agreed between the said

vendor, his heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the one part and

the said purchaser, his heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the

other part.
The narrator and Hynes walk east from Arbour Hill along King Street North and then turn south down Halston Street to Little Britain St. to go to Barney Kiernan’s so that Hynes can report to the citizen the result of the cattle traders’ meeting about hoof and mouth. Citizen=based on Michael Cusack (1847-1907), founder of the Gaelic Athletic Association (1884), dedicated to the revival of Irish sports, such as hurling and Gaelic football. Ellmann quotes his standard greeting: “I’m Citizen Cusack from the Parish of Carron in the Barony of Burre in the County of Clare, you Protestant dog!”
--Are you a strict t.t.? says Joe.
--Not taking anything between drinks, says I.
--What about paying our respects to our friend? says Joe.
--Who? says I. Sure, he's out in John of God's off his head, poor man.
--Drinking his own stuff? says Joe.
--Ay, says I. Whisky and water on the brain.
--Come around to Barney Kiernan's, says Joe. I want to see the citizen.
--Barney mavourneen's be it, says I. Anything strange or wonderful, Joe?
--Not a word, says Joe. I was up at that meeting in the City Arms.
---What was that, Joe? says I.
--Cattle traders, says Joe, about the foot and mouth disease. I want to

give the citizen the hard word about it.
So we went around by the Linenhall barracks and the back of the

courthouse talking of one thing or another. Decent fellow Joe when he has

it but sure like that he never has it. Jesus, I couldn't get over that

bloody foxy Geraghty, the daylight robber. For trading without a licence,

says he.
Parody 2: In the style of 19th-century translations and revisions of Irish poetry, myth, and legend, such as James Clarench Mangan’s “Aldfrid’s Itinerary” and Lady Gregory’s Gods and Fighting Men (1904).
In Inisfail the fair there lies a land, the land of holy Michan. There

rises a watchtower beheld of men afar. There sleep the mighty dead as in

life they slept, warriors and princes of high renown. A pleasant land it

is in sooth of murmuring waters, fishful streams where sport the gurnard,

the plaice, the roach, the halibut, the gibbed haddock, the grilse,

the dab, the brill, the flounder, the pollock, the mixed coarse fish

generally and other denizens of the aqueous kingdom too numerous to be

enumerated. In the mild breezes of the west and of the east the lofty

trees wave in different directions their firstclass foliage, the wafty

sycamore, the Lebanonian cedar, the exalted planetree, the eugenic

eucalyptus and other ornaments of the arboreal world with which that

region is thoroughly well supplied. Lovely maidens sit in close proximity

to the roots of the lovely trees singing the most lovely songs while they

play with all kinds of lovely objects as for example golden ingots,

silvery fishes, crans of herrings, drafts of eels, codlings, creels of

fingerlings, purple seagems and playful insects. And heroes voyage from

afar to woo them, from Eblana to Slievemargy, the peerless princes of

unfettered Munster and of Connacht the just and of smooth sleek Leinster

and of Cruahan's land and of Armagh the splendid and of the noble district

of Boyle, princes, the sons of kings.
And there rises a shining palace whose crystal glittering roof is seen by

mariners who traverse the extensive sea in barks built expressly for that

purpose, and thither come all herds and fatlings and firstfruits of that

land for O'Connell Fitzsimon takes toll of them, a chieftain descended

from chieftains. Thither the extremely large wains bring foison of the

fields, flaskets of cauliflowers, floats of spinach, pineapple chunks,

Rangoon beans, strikes of tomatoes, drums of figs, drills of Swedes,

spherical potatoes and tallies of iridescent kale, York and Savoy, and

trays of onions, pearls of the earth, and punnets of mushrooms and

custard marrows and fat vetches and bere and rape and red green yellow

brown russet sweet big bitter ripe pomellated apples and chips of

strawberries and sieves of gooseberries, pulpy and pelurious, and

strawberries fit for princes and raspberries from their canes.
I dare him, says he, and I doubledare him. Come out here, Geraghty,

you notorious bloody hill and dale robber!
Parody 3: continues in the style of Irish-revival legendry.
And by that way wend the herds innumerable of bellwethers and

flushed ewes and shearling rams and lambs and stubble geese and medium

steers and roaring mares and polled calves and longwoods and storesheep

and Cuffe's prime springers and culls and sowpigs and baconhogs and the

various different varieties of highly distinguished swine and Angus

heifers and polly bulllocks of immaculate pedigree together with prime

premiated milchcows and beeves: and there is ever heard a trampling,

cackling, roaring, lowing, bleating, bellowing, rumbling, grunting,

champing, chewing, of sheep and pigs and heavyhooved kine from

pasturelands of Lusk and Rush and Carrickmines and from the streamy vales

of Thomond, from the M'Gillicuddy's reeks the inaccessible and lordly

Shannon the unfathomable, and from the gentle declivities of the place of

the race of Kiar, their udders distended with superabundance of milk and

butts of butter and rennets of cheese and farmer's firkins and targets of

lamb and crannocks of corn and oblong eggs in great hundreds, various in

size, the agate with this dun.
They reach Barney Kiernan’s where they meet the citizen and his dog, Garryowen (named for the suburb of Limerick famous for its squalor, crudity, and brutality).
So we turned into Barney Kiernan's and there, sure enough, was the citizen

up in the corner having a great confab with himself and that bloody

mangy mongrel, Garryowen, and he waiting for what the sky would drop

in the way of drink.
--There he is, says I, in his gloryhole, with his cruiskeen lawn and his

load of papers, working for the cause.
The bloody mongrel let a grouse out of him would give you the creeps. Be

a corporal work of mercy if someone would take the life of that

bloody dog. I'm told for a fact he ate a good part of the breeches off a

constabulary man in Santry that came round one time with a blue paper

about a licence.
--Stand and deliver, says he.
--That's all right, citizen, says Joe. Friends here.
--Pass, friends, says he.
Then he rubs his hand in his eye and says he:
--What's your opinion of the times?
Doing the rapparee and Rory of the hill. But, begob, Joe was equal to

the occasion.
--I think the markets are on a rise, says he, sliding his hand down his

So begob the citizen claps his paw on his knee and he says:
--Foreign wars is the cause of it.
And says Joe, sticking his thumb in his pocket:
--It's the Russians wish to tyrannise.
--Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe, says I. I've a thirst on me I

wouldn't sell for half a crown.
--Give it a name, citizen, says Joe.
--Wine of the country, says he.
--What's yours? says Joe.
--Ditto MacAnaspey, says I.
--Three pints, Terry, says Joe. And how's the old heart, citizen? says he.
--Never better, A CHARA, says he. What Garry? Are we going to win? Eh?
And with that he took the bloody old towser by the scruff of the neck

and, by Jesus, he near throttled him.
Parody 4: in the style of late-19th-century reworking of Irish legend: the description of the hero.
The figure seated on a large boulder at the foot of a round tower

was that of a broadshouldered deepchested stronglimbed frankeyed

redhaired freelyfreckled shaggybearded widemouthed largenosed

longheaded deepvoiced barekneed brawnyhanded hairylegged ruddyfaced

sinewyarmed hero. From shoulder to shoulder he measured several ells and

his rocklike mountainous knees were covered, as was likewise the rest of

his body wherever visible, with a strong growth of tawny prickly hair in

hue and toughness similar to the mountain gorse (ULEX EUROPEUS). The

widewinged nostrils, from which bristles of the same tawny hue projected,

were of such capaciousness that within their cavernous obscurity the

fieldlark might easily have lodged her nest. The eyes in which a tear and

a smile strove ever for the mastery were of the dimensions of a goodsized

cauliflower. A powerful current of warm breath issued at regular intervals

from the profound cavity of his mouth while in rhythmic resonance the

loud strong hale reverberations of his formidable heart thundered

rumblingly causing the ground, the summit of the lofty tower and the still

loftier walls of the cave to vibrate and tremble.
He wore a long unsleeved garment of recently flayed oxhide reaching to the

knees in a loose kilt and this was bound about his middle by a girdle of

plaited straw and rushes. Beneath this he wore trews of deerskin, roughly

stitched with gut. His nether extremities were encased in high Balbriggan

buskins dyed in lichen purple, the feet being shod with brogues of salted

cowhide laced with the windpipe of the same beast. From his girdle hung a

row of seastones which jangled at every movement of his portentous frame

and on these were graven with rude yet striking art the tribal images of

many Irish heroes and heroines of antiquity, Cuchulin, Conn of hundred

battles, Niall of nine hostages, Brian of Kincora, the ardri Malachi, Art

MacMurragh, Shane O'Neill, Father John Murphy, Owen Roe, Patrick

Sarsfield, Red Hugh O'Donnell, Red Jim MacDermott, Soggarth Eoghan

O'Growney, Michael Dwyer, Francy Higgins, Henry Joy M'Cracken,

Goliath, Horace Wheatley, Thomas Conneff, Peg Woffington, the Village

Blacksmith, Captain Moonlight, Captain Boycott, Dante Alighieri,

Christopher Columbus, S. Fursa, S. Brendan, Marshal MacMahon,

Charlemagne, Theobald Wolfe Tone, the Mother of the Maccabees, the Last

of the Mohicans, the Rose of Castile, the Man for Galway, The Man that

Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo, The Man in the Gap, The Woman Who

Didn't, Benjamin Franklin, Napoleon Bonaparte, John L. Sullivan,

Cleopatra, Savourneen Deelish, Julius Caesar, Paracelsus, sir Thomas

Lipton, William Tell, Michelangelo Hayes, Muhammad, the Bride of

Lammermoor, Peter the Hermit, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen, Patrick

W. Shakespeare, Brian Confucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio

Velasquez, Captain Nemo, Tristan and Isolde, the first Prince of Wales,

Thomas Cook and Son, the Bold Soldier Boy, Arrah na Pogue, Dick

Turpin, Ludwig Beethoven, the Colleen Bawn, Waddler Healy, Angus the

Culdee, Dolly Mount, Sidney Parade, Ben Howth, Valentine Greatrakes,

Adam and Eve, Arthur Wellesley, Boss Croker, Herodotus, Jack the

Giantkiller, Gautama Buddha, Lady Godiva, The Lily of Killarney, Balor

of the Evil Eye, the Queen of Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe Nagle, Alessandro

Volta, Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa, Don Philip O'Sullivan Beare. A

couched spear of acuminated granite rested by him while at his feet

reposed a savage animal of the canine tribe whose stertorous gasps

announced that he was sunk in uneasy slumber, a supposition confirmed by

hoarse growls and spasmodic movements which his master repressed from time

to time by tranquilising blows of a mighty cudgel rudely fashioned out of

paleolithic stone.
Joe stands drinks and pays with a sovereign, explaining that it came via “the prudent member” (i.e., Bloom) who the narrator states that he saw on his way to Arbour Hill.
So anyhow Terry brought the three pints Joe was standing and begob

the sight nearly left my eyes when I saw him land out a quid O, as true as

I'm telling you. A goodlooking sovereign.
--And there's more where that came from, says he.
--Were you robbing the poorbox, Joe? says I.
--Sweat of my brow, says Joe. 'Twas the prudent member gave me the wheeze.
--I saw him before I met you, says I, sloping around by Pill lane and

Greek street with his cod's eye counting up all the guts of the fish.
Parody 5: continues in the style of reworked Irish legend.
Who comes through Michan's land, bedight in sable armour? O'Bloom,

the son of Rory: it is he. Impervious to fear is Rory's son: he

of the prudent soul.
The citizen reads the various English names and addresses in the Independent, based on actual entries in the Irish Daily Independent for 16 June 1904.
--For the old woman of Prince's street, says the citizen, the subsidised

organ. The pledgebound party on the floor of the house. And look at this

blasted rag, says he. Look at this, says he. THE IRISH INDEPENDENT, if you

please, founded by Parnell to be the workingman's friend. Listen to the

births and deaths in the IRISH ALL FOR IRELAND INDEPENDENT, and I'll thank

you and the marriages.
And he starts reading them out:
--Gordon, Barnfield crescent, Exeter; Redmayne of Iffley, Saint Anne's on

Sea: the wife of William T Redmayne of a son. How's that, eh? Wright and

Flint, Vincent and Gillett to Rotha Marion daughter of Rosa and the late

George Alfred Gillett, 179 Clapham road, Stockwell, Playwood and

Ridsdale at Saint Jude's, Kensington by the very reverend Dr Forrest, dean

of Worcester. Eh? Deaths. Bristow, at Whitehall lane, London: Carr, Stoke

Newington, of gastritis and heart disease: Cockburn, at the Moat house,

Chepstow ...
--I know that fellow, says Joe, from bitter experience.
--Cockburn. Dimsey, wife of David Dimsey, late of the admiralty: Miller,

Tottenham, aged eightyfive: Welsh, June 12, at 35 Canning street,

Liverpool, Isabella Helen. How's that for a national press, eh, my brown

son! How's that for Martin Murphy, the Bantry jobber?
--Ah, well, says Joe, handing round the boose. Thanks be to God they had

the start of us. Drink that, citizen.
--I will, says he, honourable person.
--Health, Joe, says I. And all down the form.
Ah! Ow! Don't be talking! I was blue mouldy for the want of that

pint. Declare to God I could hear it hit the pit of my stomach with a

Parody 6: continues the parodies of reworked Irish legend.
And lo, as they quaffed their cup of joy, a godlike messenger came

swiftly in, radiant as the eye of heaven, a comely youth and behind him

there passed an elder of noble gait and countenance, bearing the sacred

scrolls of law and with him his lady wife a dame of peerless lineage,

fairest of her race.
Alf Bergan comes in to the snug where Bob Doran is sleeping to get out of the way of Denis Breen who continues his search for legal redress. Bergan orders a “pony,” a glass of porter.
Little Alf Bergan popped in round the door and hid behind Barney's

snug, squeezed up with the laughing. And who was sitting up there in the

corner that I hadn't seen snoring drunk blind to the world only Bob Doran.

I didn't know what was up and Alf kept making signs out of the door. And

begob what was it only that bloody old pantaloon Denis Breen in his

bathslippers with two bloody big books tucked under his oxter and the wife

hotfoot after him, unfortunate wretched woman, trotting like a poodle. I

thought Alf would split.
--Look at him, says he. Breen. He's traipsing all round Dublin with a

postcard someone sent him with U. p: up on it to take a li ...
And he doubled up.
--Take a what? says I.
--Libel action, says he, for ten thousand pounds.
--O hell! says I.
The bloody mongrel began to growl that'd put the fear of God in you

seeing something was up but the citizen gave him a kick in the ribs.
--BI I DHO HUSHT, says he.
--Who? says Joe.
--Breen, says Alf. He was in John Henry Menton's and then he went round

to Collis and Ward's and then Tom Rochford met him and sent him round

to the subsheriff's for a lark. O God, I've a pain laughing. U. p: up. The

long fellow gave him an eye as good as a process and now the bloody old

lunatic is gone round to Green street to look for a G man.
--When is long John going to hang that fellow in Mountjoy? says Joe.
--Bergan, says Bob Doran, waking up. Is that Alf Bergan?
--Yes, says Alf. Hanging? Wait till I show you. Here, Terry, give us a

pony. That bloody old fool! Ten thousand pounds. You should have seen long

John's eye. U. p ...
And he started laughing.
--Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran. Is that Bergan?
--Hurry up, Terry boy, says Alf.
Parody 7: mixes the parodies of reworked Irish legend with retold stories from Greek mythology and medieval romance.
Terence O'Ryan heard him and straightway brought him a crystal

cup full of the foamy ebon ale which the noble twin brothers Bungiveagh

and Bungardilaun brew ever in their divine alevats, cunning as the sons of

deathless Leda. For they garner the succulent berries of the hop and mass

and sift and bruise and brew them and they mix therewith sour juices and

bring the must to the sacred fire and cease not night or day from their

toil, those cunning brothers, lords of the vat.
Then did you, chivalrous Terence, hand forth, as to the manner born,

that nectarous beverage and you offered the crystal cup to him that

thirsted, the soul of chivalry, in beauty akin to the immortals.
But he, the young chief of the O'Bergan's, could ill brook to be outdone

in generous deeds but gave therefor with gracious gesture a testoon

of costliest bronze. Thereon embossed in excellent smithwork was seen the

image of a queen of regal port, scion of the house of Brunswick, Victoria

her name, Her Most Excellent Majesty, by grace of God of the United

Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of the British dominions beyond

the sea, queen, defender of the faith, Empress of India, even she, who

bore rule, a victress over many peoples, the wellbeloved, for they knew

and loved her from the rising of the sun to the going down thereof, the

pale, the dark, the ruddy and the ethiop.
They discuss Bloom outside. Alf says he has just seen Paddy Dignam in Capel St.
--What's that bloody freemason doing, says the citizen, prowling up and

down outside?
--What's that? says Joe.
--Here you are, says Alf, chucking out the rhino. Talking about hanging,

I'll show you something you never saw. Hangmen's letters. Look at here.
So he took a bundle of wisps of letters and envelopes out of his pocket.
--Are you codding? says I.
--Honest injun, says Alf. Read them.
So Joe took up the letters.
--Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran.
So I saw there was going to be a bit of a dust Bob's a queer chap

when the porter's up in him so says I just to make talk:
--How's Willy Murray those times, Alf?
--I don't know, says Alf I saw him just now in Capel street with Paddy

Dignam. Only I was running after that ...
--You what? says Joe, throwing down the letters. With who?
--With Dignam, says Alf.
--Is it Paddy? says Joe.
--Yes, says Alf. Why?
--Don't you know he's dead? says Joe.
--Paddy Dignam dead! says Alf.
--Ay, says Joe.
--Sure I'm after seeing him not five minutes ago, says Alf, as plain as a

--Who's dead? says Bob Doran.
--You saw his ghost then, says Joe, God between us and harm.
--What? says Alf. Good Christ, only five ... What? ... And Willy Murray

with him, the two of them there near whatdoyoucallhim's ... What?

Dignam dead?
--What about Dignam? says Bob Doran. Who's talking about... ?
--Dead! says Alf. He's no more dead than you are.
--Maybe so, says Joe. They took the liberty of burying him this morning

--Paddy? says Alf.
--Ay, says Joe. He paid the debt of nature, God be merciful to him.
--Good Christ! says Alf.
Begob he was what you might call flabbergasted.

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