—­CONSPUEZ Les FRANCAIS, says Lenehan, nobbling his beer.

—­And as for the Prooshians and the Hanoverians, says Joe, haven’t we had enough of those sausageeating bastards on the throne from George the elector down to the German lad and the flatulent old bitch that’s dead?

Jesus, I had to laugh at the way he came out with that about the old one with the winkers on her, blind drunk in her royal palace every night of God, old Vic, with her jorum of mountain dew and her coachman carting her up body and bones to roll into bed and she pulling him by the whiskers and singing him old bits of songs about Ehren on the Rhine and come where the boose is cheaper.

—­Well, says J. J. We have Edward the peacemaker now.

—­Tell that to a fool, says the citizen.  There’s a bloody sight more pox than pax about that boyo.  Edward Guelph-Wettin!

—­And what do you think, says Joe, of the holy boys, the priests and bishops of Ireland doing up his room in Maynooth in His Satanic Majesty’s racing colours and sticking up pictures of all the horses his jockeys rode.  The earl of Dublin, no less.

—­They ought to have stuck up all the women he rode himself, says little Alf.

And says J. J.: 

—­Considerations of space influenced their lordships’ decision.

—­Will you try another, citizen? says Joe.

—­Yes, sir, says he.  I will.

—­You? says Joe.

—­Beholden to you, Joe, says I. May your shadow never grow less.

—­Repeat that dose, says Joe.

Bloom was talking and talking with John Wyse and he quite excited with his dunducketymudcoloured mug on him and his old plumeyes rolling about.

—­Persecution, says he, all the history of the world is full of it. 
Perpetuating national hatred among nations.

—­But do you know what a nation means? says John Wyse.

—­Yes, says Bloom.

—­What is it? says John Wyse.

—­A nation? says Bloom.  A nation is the same people living in the same place.

—­By God, then, says Ned, laughing, if that’s so I’m a nation for I’m living in the same place for the past five years.

So of course everyone had the laugh at Bloom and says he, trying to muck out of it: 

—­Or also living in different places.

—­That covers my case, says Joe.

—­What is your nation if I may ask? says the citizen.

—­Ireland, says Bloom.  I was born here.  Ireland.

The citizen said nothing only cleared the spit out of his gullet and, gob, he spat a Red bank oyster out of him right in the corner.

—­After you with the push, Joe, says he, taking out his handkerchief to swab himself dry.

—­Here you are, citizen, says Joe.  Take that in your right hand and repeat after me the following words.