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.