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bewailing like a man that innocence which I could not defend
like a woman, lo,you there, Cathmon-Carbery, and thank Movies
from the innermost depths of my still attrite heart,Wherein
the days of youyouth are evermixed mimine, now ere the comp-
line hour of being alone athands itself and a puff or so before
we yield our spiritus to the wind, for (though that royal one
has not yet drunk a gouttelette from his consummation and the
flowerpot on the pole, the spaniel pack and their quarry, retainers
and the public house proprietor have not budged a millimetre
and all that has been done has yet to be done and done again,
when's day's woe, and lo, you're doomed, joyday dawns and,
la, you dominate) it is to you, firstborn and firstfruit of woe, to
me, branded sheep, pick of the wasterpaperbaskel, by the
tremours of Thundery and Ulerin's dogstar, you alone, wind-
blasted tree of the knowledge of beautiful andevil, ay, clothed
upon with the metuor and shimmering like the horescens, astro-
glodynamonologos, the child of Nilfit's father, blzb, to me
unseen blusher in an obscene coalhole, the cubilibum of your
secret sigh, dweller in the downandoutermost where voice only
of the dead may come, because ye left from me, because ye
laughed on me, because, O me lonly son, ye are forgetting me!,
that our turfbrown mummy is acoming, alpilla, beltilla, ciltilla,
deltilla, running with her tidings, old the news of the great big
world, sonnies had a scrap, woewoewoe! bab's baby walks at
seven months, waywayway ! bride leaves her raid at Punchestime,
stud stoned before a racecourseful, two belles that make the
one appeal, dry yanks will visit old sod, and fourtiered skirts
are up, mesdames, while Parimiknie wears popular short legs,
and twelve hows to mix a tipsy wake, did ye hear, colt Cooney?
did ye ever, filly Fortescue? with a beck, with a spring, all her
rillringlets shaking, rocks drops in her tachie, tramtokens in
her hair, all waived to a point and then all inuendation, little
oldfashioned mummy, little wonderful mummy, ducking under
bridges, bellhopping the weirs, dodging by a bit of bog, rapid-
shooting round the bends, by Tallaght's green hills and the
pools of the phooka and a place they call it Blessington and