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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Conversation turns to questions of nationalism, the Gaelic League, and temperance with the Narrator’s ire stimulated by the talk against drink and the hostility of Gerryowen.
So then the citizen begins talking about the Irish language and the

corporation meeting and all to that and the shoneens that can't speak

their own language and Joe chipping in because he stuck someone for

a quid and Bloom putting in his old goo with his twopenny stump that

he cadged off of Joe and talking about the Gaelic league and the

antitreating league and drink, the curse of Ireland. Antitreating

is about the size of it. Gob, he'd let you pour all manner of drink

down his throat till the Lord would call him before you'd ever

see the froth of his pint. And one night I went in with a fellow

into one of their musical evenings, song and dance about she could

get up on a truss of hay she could my Maureen Lay and there was a fellow

with a Ballyhooly blue ribbon badge spiffing out of him in Irish and a lot

of colleen bawns going about with temperance beverages and selling medals

and oranges and lemonade and a few old dry buns, gob, flahoolagh

entertainment, don't be talking. Ireland sober is Ireland free. And then

an old fellow starts blowing into his bagpipes and all the gougers

shuffling their feet to the tune the old cow died of. And one or two sky

pilots having an eye around that there was no goings on with the females,

hitting below the belt.
So howandever, as I was saying, the old dog seeing the tin was empty

starts mousing around by Joe and me. I'd train him by kindness, so I

would, if he was my dog. Give him a rousing fine kick now and again where

it wouldn't blind him.
--Afraid he'll bite you? says the citizen, jeering.
--No, says I. But he might take my leg for a lamppost.
So he calls the old dog over.
--What's on you, Garry? says he.
Then he starts hauling and mauling and talking to him in Irish and

the old towser growling, letting on to answer, like a duet in the opera.

Such growling you never heard as they let off between them. Someone that

has nothing better to do ought to write a letter PRO BONO PUBLICO to the

papers about the muzzling order for a dog the like of that. Growling and

grousing and his eye all bloodshot from the drouth is in it and the

hydrophobia dropping out of his jaws.
Parody 14: In the style of a newspaper’s puff for a theatrical program.
All those who are interested in the spread of human culture among

the lower animals (and their name is legion) should make a point of not

missing the really marvellous exhibition of cynanthropy given by the

famous old Irish red setter wolfdog formerly known by the SOBRIQUET of

Garryowen and recently rechristened by his large circle of friends and

acquaintances Owen Garry. The exhibition, which is the result of years of

training by kindness and a carefully thoughtout dietary system, comprises,

among other achievements, the recitation of verse. Our greatest living

phonetic expert (wild horses shall not drag it from us!) has left no stone

unturned in his efforts to delucidate and compare the verse recited and has

found it bears a STRIKING resemblance (the italics are ours) to the ranns

of ancient Celtic bards. We are not speaking so much of those delightful

lovesongs with which the writer who conceals his identity under the

graceful pseudonym of the Little Sweet Branch has familiarised the

bookloving world but rather (as a contributor D. O. C. points out in an

interesting communication published by an evening contemporary) of the

harsher and more personal note which is found in the satirical effusions

of the famous Raftery and of Donal MacConsidine to say nothing of a more

modern lyrist at present very much in the public eye. We subjoin a

specimen which has been rendered into English by an eminent scholar

whose name for the moment we are not at liberty to disclose though

we believe that our readers will find the topical allusion rather

more than an indication. The metrical system of the canine original,

which recalls the intricate alliterative and isosyllabic rules of

the Welsh englyn, is infinitely more complicated but we believe our

readers will agree that the spirit has been well caught. Perhaps

it should be added that the effect is greatly increased if Owen's

verse be spoken somewhat slowly and indistinctly in a tone suggestive

of suppressed rancour.

THE CURSE OF MY CURSES

SEVEN DAYS EVERY DAY

AND SEVEN DRY THURSDAYS

ON YOU, BARNEY KIERNAN,

HAS NO SUP OF WATER

TO COOL MY COURAGE,

AND MY GUTS RED ROARING

AFTER LOWRY'S LIGHTS.
Bloom explains how they are trying to get the life insurance for Dignam’s widow.
So he told Terry to bring some water for the dog and, gob, you could

hear him lapping it up a mile off. And Joe asked him would he have

another.
--I will, says he, A CHARA, to show there's no ill feeling.
Gob, he's not as green as he's cabbagelooking. Arsing around from

one pub to another, leaving it to your own honour, with old Giltrap's dog

and getting fed up by the ratepayers and corporators. Entertainment for

man and beast. And says Joe:
--Could you make a hole in another pint?
--Could a swim duck? says I.
--Same again, Terry, says Joe. Are you sure you won't have anything in the

way of liquid refreshment? says he.
--Thank you, no, says Bloom. As a matter of fact I just wanted to meet

Martin Cunningham, don't you see, about this insurance of poor Dignam's.

Martin asked me to go to the house. You see, he, Dignam, I mean, didn't

serve any notice of the assignment on the company at the time and

nominally under the act the mortgagee can't recover on the policy.
--Holy Wars, says Joe, laughing, that's a good one if old Shylock is

landed. So the wife comes out top dog, what?
--Well, that's a point, says Bloom, for the wife's admirers.
--Whose admirers? says Joe.
--The wife's advisers, I mean, says Bloom.
Then he starts all confused mucking it up about mortgagor under the act

like the lord chancellor giving it out on the bench and for the benefit of

the wife and that a trust is created but on the other hand that Dignam

owed Bridgeman the money and if now the wife or the widow contested the

mortgagee's right till he near had the head of me addled with his

mortgagor under the act. He was bloody safe he wasn't run in himself under

the act that time as a rogue and vagabond only he had a friend in court.

Selling bazaar tickets or what do you call it royal Hungarian privileged

lottery. True as you're there. O, commend me to an israelite! Royal and

privileged Hungarian robbery.


So Bob Doran comes lurching around asking Bloom to tell Mrs

Dignam he was sorry for her trouble and he was very sorry about the

funeral and to tell her that he said and everyone who knew him said that

there was never a truer, a finer than poor little Willy that's dead to tell

her. Choking with bloody foolery. And shaking Bloom's hand doing the

tragic to tell her that. Shake hands, brother. You're a rogue and I'm



another.
Parody 14: In the style of sentimental 19th-century fiction.
--Let me, said he, so far presume upon our acquaintance which, however

slight it may appear if judged by the standard of mere time, is founded,

as I hope and believe, on a sentiment of mutual esteem as to request of

you this favour. But, should I have overstepped the limits of reserve

let the sincerity of my feelings be the excuse for my boldness.
--No, rejoined the other, I appreciate to the full the motives which

actuate your conduct and I shall discharge the office you entrust

to me consoled by the reflection that, though the errand be one of

sorrow, this proof of your confidence sweetens in some measure the

bitterness of the cup.
--Then suffer me to take your hand, said he. The goodness of your heart, I

feel sure, will dictate to you better than my inadequate words the

expressions which are most suitable to convey an emotion whose

poignancy, were I to give vent to my feelings, would deprive me even of

speech.
Narrator:
And off with him and out trying to walk straight. Boosed at five

o'clock. Night he was near being lagged only Paddy Leonard knew the bobby,

14A. Blind to the world up in a shebeen in Bride street after closing

time, fornicating with two shawls and a bully on guard, drinking porter

out of teacups. And calling himself a Frenchy for the shawls, Joseph

Manuo, and talking against the Catholic religion, and he serving mass in

Adam and Eve's when he was young with his eyes shut, who wrote the new

testament, and the old testament, and hugging and smugging. And the two

shawls killed with the laughing, picking his pockets, the bloody

fool and he spilling the porter all over the bed and the two shawls

screeching laughing at one another. HOW IS YOUR TESTAMENT? HAVE YOU

GOT AN OLD TESTAMENT? Only Paddy was passing there, I tell you what.

Then see him of a Sunday with his little concubine of a wife, and

she wagging her tail up the aisle of the chapel with her patent boots

on her, no less, and her violets, nice as pie, doing the little lady.

Jack Mooney's sister. And the old prostitute of a mother

procuring rooms to street couples. Gob, Jack made him toe the line. Told

him if he didn't patch up the pot, Jesus, he'd kick the shite out of him.
So Terry brought the three pints.
--Here, says Joe, doing the honours. Here, citizen.
--SLAN LEAT, says he.
--Fortune, Joe, says I. Good health, citizen.
Gob, he had his mouth half way down the tumbler already. Want a

small fortune to keep him in drinks.
--Who is the long fellow running for the mayoralty, Alf? says Joe.
--Friend of yours, says Alf.
--Nannan? says Joe. The mimber?
--I won't mention any names, says Alf.
--I thought so, says Joe. I saw him up at that meeting now with William

Field, M. P., the cattle traders.
--Hairy Iopas, says the citizen, that exploded volcano, the darling of all

countries and the idol of his own.
So Joe starts telling the citizen about the foot and mouth disease and

the cattle traders and taking action in the matter and the citizen sending

them all to the rightabout and Bloom coming out with his sheepdip for the

scab and a hoose drench for coughing calves and the guaranteed remedy

for timber tongue. Because he was up one time in a knacker's yard.

Walking about with his book and pencil here's my head and my heels are

coming till Joe Cuffe gave him the order of the boot for giving lip to a

grazier. Mister Knowall. Teach your grandmother how to milk ducks.

Pisser Burke was telling me in the hotel the wife used to be in rivers of

tears some times with Mrs O'Dowd crying her eyes out with her eight inches

of fat all over her. Couldn't loosen her farting strings but old cod's eye

was waltzing around her showing her how to do it. What's your programme

today? Ay. Humane methods. Because the poor animals suffer and experts

say and the best known remedy that doesn't cause pain to the animal and

on the sore spot administer gently. Gob, he'd have a soft hand under a

hen.
Parody 15: In the style of a child’s primer.
Ga Ga Gara. Klook Klook Klook. Black Liz is our hen. She lays eggs

for us. When she lays her egg she is so glad. Gara. Klook Klook Klook.

Then comes good uncle Leo. He puts his hand under black Liz and takes

her fresh egg. Ga ga ga ga Gara. Klook Klook Klook.
Narrator:
--Anyhow, says Joe, Field and Nannetti are going over tonight to London

to ask about it on the floor of the house of commons.
--Are you sure, says Bloom, the councillor is going? I wanted to see him,

as it happens.
--Well, he's going off by the mailboat, says Joe, tonight.
--That's too bad, says Bloom. I wanted particularly. Perhaps only Mr Field

is going. I couldn't phone. No. You're sure?
--Nannan's going too, says Joe. The league told him to ask a question

tomorrow about the commissioner of police forbidding Irish games in the

park. What do you think of that, citizen? THE SLUAGH NA H-EIREANN.
Parody 16: In the style of minutes of proceeding in the House of Commons.
Mr Cowe Conacre (Multifarnham. Nat.): Arising out of the question of my

honourable friend, the member for Shillelagh, may I ask the right

honourable gentleman whether the government has issued orders that these

animals shall be slaughtered though no medical evidence is forthcoming as

to their pathological condition?
Mr Allfours (Tamoshant. Con.): Honourable members are already in

possession of the evidence produced before a committee of the whole house.

I feel I cannot usefully add anything to that. The answer to the

honourable member's question is in the affirmative.
Mr Orelli O'Reilly (Montenotte. Nat.): Have similar orders been issued for

the slaughter of human animals who dare to play Irish games in the

Phoenix park?
Mr Allfours: The answer is in the negative.
Mr Cowe Conacre: Has the right honourable gentleman's famous

Mitchelstown telegram inspired the policy of gentlemen on the Treasury

bench? (O! O!)
Mr Allfours: I must have notice of that question.
Mr Staylewit (Buncombe. Ind.): Don't hesitate to shoot.
(Ironical opposition cheers.)
The speaker: Order! Order!
(The house rises. Cheers.)
The Narrator:
--There's the man, says Joe, that made the Gaelic sports revival. There he

is sitting there. The man that got away James Stephens. The champion of

all Ireland at putting the sixteen pound shot. What was your best throw,

citizen?
--NA BACLEIS, says the citizen, letting on to be modest. There was a time

I was as good as the next fellow anyhow.
--Put it there, citizen, says Joe. You were and a bloody sight better.
--Is that really a fact? says Alf.
--Yes, says Bloom. That's well known. Did you not know that?
So off they started about Irish sports and shoneen games the like of lawn

tennis and about hurley and putting the stone and racy of the soil and

building up a nation once again and all to that. And of course Bloom had

to have his say too about if a fellow had a rower's heart violent

exercise was bad. I declare to my antimacassar if you took up a

straw from the bloody floor and if you said to Bloom: LOOK AT, BLOOM.

DO YOU SEE THAT STRAW? THAT'S A STRAW. Declare to my aunt he'd talk

about it for an hour so he would and talk steady.
Parody 17: In the style of minutes of a meeting written up as a disguised advertisement of a social or political organization (intended for insertion in the column of a newspaper).
A most interesting discussion took place in the ancient hall of BRIAN

O'CIARNAIN'S in SRAID NA BRETAINE BHEAG, under the auspices of SLUAGH NA

H-EIREANN, on the revival of ancient Gaelic sports and the importance of

physical culture, as understood in ancient Greece and ancient Rome and

ancient Ireland, for the development of the race. The venerable president

of the noble order was in the chair and the attendance was of large

dimensions. After an instructive discourse by the chairman, a magnificent

oration eloquently and forcibly expressed, a most interesting and

instructive discussion of the usual high standard of excellence

ensued as to the desirability of the revivability of the ancient

games and sports of our ancient Panceltic forefathers. The

wellknown and highly respected worker in the cause of our old

tongue, Mr Joseph M'Carthy Hynes, made an eloquent appeal for

the resuscitation of the ancient Gaelic sports and pastimes,

practised morning and evening by Finn MacCool, as calculated to revive the

best traditions of manly strength and prowess handed down to us from

ancient ages. L. Bloom, who met with a mixed reception of applause and

hisses, having espoused the negative the vocalist chairman brought the

discussion to a close, in response to repeated requests and hearty

plaudits from all parts of a bumper house, by a remarkably noteworthy

rendering of the immortal Thomas Osborne Davis' evergreen verses (happily

too familiar to need recalling here) A NATION ONCE AGAIN in the execution

of which the veteran patriot champion may be said without fear of

contradiction to have fairly excelled himself. The Irish Caruso-Garibaldi

was in superlative form and his stentorian notes were heard to the

greatest advantage in the timehonoured anthem sung as only our citizen

can sing it. His superb highclass vocalism, which by its superquality

greatly enhanced his already international reputation, was vociferously

applauded by the large audience among which were to be noticed many

prominent members of the clergy as well as representatives of the press

and the bar and the other learned professions. The proceedings then

terminated.
Amongst the clergy present were the very rev. William Delany, S. J.,

L. L. D.; the rt rev. Gerald Molloy, D. D.; the rev. P. J. Kavanagh,

C. S. Sp.; the rev. T. Waters, C. C.; the rev. John M. Ivers, P. P.; the

rev. P. J. Cleary, O. S. F.; the rev. L. J. Hickey, O. P.; the very rev.

Fr. Nicholas, O. S. F. C.; the very rev. B. Gorman, O. D. C.; the rev. T.

Maher, S. J.; the very rev. James Murphy, S. J.; the rev. John Lavery,

V. F.; the very rev. William Doherty, D. D.; the rev. Peter Fagan, O. M.;

the rev. T. Brangan, O. S. A.; the rev. J. Flavin, C. C.; the rev. M. A.

Hackett, C. C.; the rev. W. Hurley, C. C.; the rt rev. Mgr M'Manus,

V. G.; the rev. B. R. Slattery, O. M. I.; the very rev. M. D. Scally, P.

P.; the rev. F. T. Purcell, O. P.; the very rev. Timothy canon Gorman,

P. P.; the rev. J. Flanagan, C. C. The laity included P. Fay, T. Quirke,

etc., etc.
Discussing sport, Alf mentions the Keogh-Bennett fight and Boylan’s wager. Bloom tries to change the subject.
--Talking about violent exercise, says Alf, were you at that Keogh-Bennett

match?
--No, says Joe.
--I heard So and So made a cool hundred quid over it, says Alf.
--Who? Blazes? says Joe.
And says Bloom:
--What I meant about tennis, for example, is the agility and training the

eye.
--Ay, Blazes, says Alf. He let out that Myler was on the beer to run up

the odds and he swatting all the time.
--We know him, says the citizen. The traitor's son. We know what put

English gold in his pocket.
---True for you, says Joe.
And Bloom cuts in again about lawn tennis and the circulation of the

blood, asking Alf:
--Now, don't you think, Bergan?
--Myler dusted the floor with him, says Alf. Heenan and Sayers was only a

bloody fool to it. Handed him the father and mother of a beating. See the

little kipper not up to his navel and the big fellow swiping. God, he gave

him one last puck in the wind, Queensberry rules and all, made him puke

what he never ate.
Parody 18: In the style of sports journalism.
It was a historic and a hefty battle when Myler and Percy were

scheduled to don the gloves for the purse of fifty sovereigns. Handicapped

as he was by lack of poundage, Dublin's pet lamb made up for it by

superlative skill in ringcraft. The final bout of fireworks was a

gruelling for both champions. The welterweight sergeantmajor had

tapped some lively claret in the previous mixup during which Keogh

had been receivergeneral of rights and lefts, the artilleryman

putting in some neat work on the pet's nose, and Myler came on

looking groggy. The soldier got to business, leading off with a

powerful left jab to which the Irish gladiator retaliated by shooting

out a stiff one flush to the point of Bennett's jaw. The redcoat

ducked but the Dubliner lifted him with a left hook, the body punch being

a fine one. The men came to handigrips. Myler quickly became busy and got

his man under, the bout ending with the bulkier man on the ropes, Myler

punishing him. The Englishman, whose right eye was nearly closed, took

his corner where he was liberally drenched with water and when the bell

went came on gamey and brimful of pluck, confident of knocking out the

fistic Eblanite in jigtime. It was a fight to a finish and the best man

for it. The two fought like tigers and excitement ran fever high. The

referee twice cautioned Pucking Percy for holding but the pet was tricky

and his footwork a treat to watch. After a brisk exchange of courtesies

during which a smart upper cut of the military man brought blood freely

from his opponent's mouth the lamb suddenly waded in all over his man and

landed a terrific left to Battling Bennett's stomach, flooring him flat.

It was a knockout clean and clever. Amid tense expectation the Portobello

bruiser was being counted out when Bennett's second Ole Pfotts Wettstein

threw in the towel and the Santry boy was declared victor to the frenzied

cheers of the public who broke through the ringropes and fairly mobbed him

with delight.


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