in the pound.  Or a woman’s with her saucepan.  I cooked good Irish stew.  Eulogy in a country churchyard it ought to be that poem of whose is it Wordsworth or Thomas Campbell.  Entered into rest the protestants put it.  Old Dr Murren’s.  The great physician called him home.  Well it’s God’s acre for them.  Nice country residence.  Newly plastered and painted.  Ideal spot to have a quiet smoke and read the church times.  Marriage ads they never try to beautify.  Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil.  Better value that for the money.  Still, the flowers are more poetical.  The other gets rather tiresome, never withering.  Expresses nothing.  Immortelles.

A bird sat tamely perched on a poplar branch.  Like stuffed.  Like the wedding present alderman Hooper gave us.  Hoo!  Not a budge out of him.  Knows there are no catapults to let fly at him.  Dead animal even sadder.  Silly-Milly burying the little dead bird in the kitchen matchbox, a daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the grave.

The Sacred Heart that is:  showing it.  Heart on his sleeve.  Ought to be sideways and red it should be painted like a real heart.  Ireland was dedicated to it or whatever that.  Seems anything but pleased.  Why this infliction?  Would birds come then and peck like the boy with the basket of fruit but he said no because they ought to have been afraid of the boy.  Apollo that was.

How many!  All these here once walked round Dublin.  Faithful departed.  As you are now so once were we.

Besides how could you remember everybody?  Eyes, walk, voice.  Well, the voice, yes:  gramophone.  Have a gramophone in every grave or keep it in the house.  After dinner on a Sunday.  Put on poor old greatgrandfather.  Kraahraark!  Hellohellohello amawfullyglad kraark awfullygladaseeagain hellohello amawf krpthsth.  Remind you of the voice like the photograph reminds you of the face.  Otherwise you couldn’t remember the face after fifteen years, say.  For instance who?  For instance some fellow that died when I was in Wisdom Hely’s.

Rtststr!  A rattle of pebbles.  Wait.  Stop!

He looked down intently into a stone crypt.  Some animal.  Wait. 
There he goes.

An obese grey rat toddled along the side of the crypt, moving the pebbles.  An old stager:  greatgrandfather:  he knows the ropes.  The grey alive crushed itself in under the plinth, wriggled itself in under it.  Good hidingplace for treasure.

Who lives there?  Are laid the remains of Robert Emery.  Robert
Emmet was buried here by torchlight, wasn’t he?  Making his rounds.

Tail gone now.