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Finnegans Wake (1939): “King Roderick
O’Connor” (the so-called First Fragment)
SO ANYHOW, melumps and mumpos of the hoose
uncommons, after that to wind up that longtobechronickled gettogether
thanksbetogiving day at Glenfinisk-en-la-Valle, the anniversary of his
finst homy commulion, after that same barbecue beanfeast was all over
poor old hospitable corn and eggfactor, King Roderick, the paramount chief
polemarch and last pre-electric king of Ireland, who was anything you
say yourself between fiftyodd and fiftyeven years of age at the time after
the socalled last supper he so greatly gave in his umbrageous house of
the hundred bottles with the radio beamer tower and its hangars, chimbneys
and equilines or, at least, he wasn’t actually the then last king
of all Ireland for the time being for the jolly good reason that he was
still such as he was the eminent king of all Ireland himself after the
last preeminent king of all Ireland, the whilom joky old top that went
before him in the Taharan dynasty, King Arth Mockmorrow Koughenough of
the leathered leggions, now of parts unknown (God guard his generous
comicsongbook soul!) that put a poached fowl in the poor man’s pot
before he took to his pallyass with the weeping eczema for better or worse
until he went under the grass quilt on us, nevertheless, the years the
sugar was scarce, and we to lather and shave and frizzle him, like a bald
surging bouy and himself down to three cows that was meat and drink and
dogs and washing to him, ‘tis good cause we have to remember it,
going through summersultryngs of snow and sleeet with the widow Nolan’s
goats and the Brownes girl neats anyhow, wait till I tell you, what did
he do, poor old Roderick O’Conor Rex, the auspicious waterproof monarch
of all Ireland, when he found himself all alone by himself in his grand
old handwedown pile after all of them had all gone off with themselves
to their castle of mud, on footback, owing to the leak of the McCarthy’s
mare, in extended order, a tree’s length from the longest way out,
down the switchbackward slidder of the lad-landsown route of Haubernea’s
vinnage on the brain, the unimportant Parthalonians with the moudly Firbolgs
and the Tuatha de Danaan googs and the ramblers from Clane and all the
rest of the notmuchers that he did not care the royal spit out of his
ostensible mouth about, well, what do you think he did, sir, but, faix,
he just went heeltapping through the winespilth and weevily popcorks that
were kneedeep round his own right royal rollicking toper’s table,
with his old Roderick Random pullon hat at a Lanty Leary cant on him and
Mike Brady’s shirt and Greene’s linnet collarbow and his Ghenter’s
gaunts and his Macclesfield’s swash and his readymade Reilly’s
and his panprestuberian poncho, the body you’d pity him, the way
the world is, poor he, the heart of Midleinster and the supereminent lord
of them all, overwhelmed as he was with black ruin like a sponge out of
water, allocutioning in bellcantos to his own oliverian society MacGuiney’s Dreams of Ergen Adams and thrumming to himself with diversed tonguesed
through his old tears and his ould plaised drawl, starkened by the most
regal of belches, like a blarney Cashelmagh crooner that lerking Clare
air, the blackberd’s ballad I’ve a terrible errible lot todue
todie todue tootorribleday, well, what did he go and do at all, His
Most Exuberant Majesty King Roderick O’Conor, but, arrah bedamnbut,
he finalised by lowering his woolly throat with the wonderful midnight
thirst was on him, as keen as mustard, he could not tell what he did ale,
that bothered he was from head to tail, and, wishawishawish, leave it,
what the Irish, boys, can do, if he did’nt go, sliggymarglooral reemyround
and suck up, sure enough, like a Trojan, in some particular cases with
the assistance of his venerated tongue, whatever surplus rotgut, sorra
much, was left by the lazy lousers of maltknights and beerchurls in the
different bottoms of the various different replenquished drinking utensils
left there behind them on the premisses by that whole hogsheaded firkin
family, the departed honourable homegoers and other slygrogging suburbanites,
such as it was, fall and fall about, to the brandishing of his charmed
life, as toastified by his cheeriubicundenances, no matter whether it
was chateaubottled Guiness’s or Phoenix brewery stout it was or John
Jameson and Sons or Roob Coccola or, for the matter of that, O’Connell’s
ffamous old Dublin ale that he wanted like hell, more than halibut oil
or jesuits tea, as a fall back, of several different quantities of qualities
amounting in all to, I should say, considerably more than the better part
of a gill or a naggin of imperial dry and liquid measure till, welcome
be from us here, till the rising of the morn, till that hen of Kaven’s
shows her beaconegg, and Chapwellswendows stain our horyhistoricold and
Father MacMichael stamps for aitch o’clerk mess and the Litvian Newsestlatter
is seen, sold and delivered and all’s set for restart after the silence,
like his ancestors to this day after him (that the blazings of their ouldmouldy
gods may attend to them we pray!), overopposites the cowery lad in the
corner and forenenst the staregaze of the cathering candled, that adornment
of his album and folkenfather of familyans, he came acrash a crupper sort
of a sate on accomondation and the very boxst in all his composs, whereuponce,
behome the fore for cove and trawlers, heave hone, leave lone, Larry’s
on the focse and Faugh MacHugh O’Bawlar at the wheel, one to do and
one to dare, par by par, a peerless pair, every here and over there, with
his fol the dee oll the doo on the flure of his feats and the feels of
the fumes in the wakes of his ears our wineman from Barleyhome he just
slumped to throne.
So sailed the stout ship Nansy Hans. From Liff away. For Nattenlaender.
As who has come returns. Farvel, farerne! Food bark, goodbye!
Now follow we out to Starloe! |
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