Page 491 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

fiddles, eye on the bowend, sawing the cello, remind you
of toothache. Her high long snore. Night we were in the
box. Trombone under blowing like a grampus, between
the acts, other brass chap unscrewing, emptying spittle.

Conductor’s legs too, bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy. Do
right to hide them.
Jiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty.
Only the harp. Lovely. Gold glowering light. Girl
touched it. Poop of a lovely. Gravy’s rather good fit for a.
Golden ship. Erin. The harp that once or twice. Cool
hands. Ben Howth, the rhododendrons. We are their
harps. I. He. Old. Young.
—Ah, I couldn’t, man, Mr Dedalus said, shy, listless.
Strongly.
—Go on, blast you! Ben Dollard growled. Get it out in
bits.
—M’appari, Simon, Father Cowley said.
Down stage he strode some paces, grave, tall in
affliction, his long arms outheld. Hoarsely the apple of his
throat hoarsed softly. Softly he sang to a dusty seascape
there: A Last Farewell. A headland, a ship, a sail upon the
billows. Farewell. A lovely girl, her veil awave upon the
wind upon the headland, wind around her.
Cowley sang:

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