quicken shoots. Mr and Mrs
Wyse Conifer Neaulan will spend a quiet honeymoon in the Black Forest.
--And our eyes are on Europe, says the citizen. We had our trade with
Spain and the French and with the Flemings before those mongrels were
pupped, Spanish ale in Galway, the winebark on the winedark waterway.
--And will again, says Joe.
--And with the help of the holy mother of God we will again, says the
citizen, clapping his thigh, our harbours that are empty will be full
again, Queenstown, Kinsale, Galway, Blacksod Bay, Ventry in the kingdom
of Kerry, Killybegs, the third largest harbour in the wide world with
a fleet of masts of the Galway Lynches and the Cavan O'Reillys and the
O'Kennedys of Dublin when the earl of Desmond could make a treaty with
the emperor Charles the Fifth himself. And will again, says he, when the
first Irish battleship is seen breasting the waves with our own flag to
the fore, none of your Henry Tudor's harps, no, the oldest flag afloat,
the flag of the province of Desmond and Thomond, three crowns on a blue
field, the three sons of Milesius.
And he took the last swig out of the pint. Moya. All wind and piss like
a tanyard cat. Cows in Connacht have long horns. As much as his bloody
life is worth to go down and address his tall talk to the assembled
multitude in Shanagolden where he daren't show his nose with the Molly
Maguires looking for him to let daylight through him for grabbing the
holding of an evicted tenant.
--Hear, hear to that, says John Wyse. What will you have?
--An imperial yeomanry, says Lenehan, to celebrate the occasion.
--Half one, Terry, says John Wyse, and a hands up. Terry! Are you
asleep?
--Yes, sir, says Terry. Small whisky and bottle of Allsop. Right, sir.
Hanging over the bloody paper with Alf looking for spicy bits instead of
attending to the general public. Picture of a butting match, trying to
crack their bloody skulls, one chap going for the other with his head
down like a bull at a gate. And another one: _Black Beast Burned in
Omaha, Ga_. A lot of Deadwood Dicks in slouch hats and they firing at a
Sambo strung up in a tree with his tongue out and a bonfire under
him. Gob, they ought to drown him in the sea after and electrocute and
crucify him to make sure of their job.
--But what about the fighting navy, says Ned, that keeps our foes at
bay?
--I'll tell you what about it, says the citizen. Hell upon earth it is.
Read the revelations that's
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