Page 594 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

after him backing his luck with his mangy snout up. Old
Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard.
—Not there, my child, says he.
—Keep your pecker up, says Joe. She’d have won the

money only for the other dog.
And J. J. and the citizen arguing about law and history
with Bloom sticking in an odd word.
—Some people, says Bloom, can see the mote in
others’ eyes but they can’t see the beam in their own.
—Raimeis, says the citizen. There’s no-one as blind as
the fellow that won’t see, if you know what that means.
Where are our missing twenty millions of Irish should be
here today instead of four, our lost tribes? And our
potteries and textiles, the finest in the whole world! And
our wool that was sold in Rome in the time of Juvenal
and our flax and our damask from the looms of Antrim
and our Limerick lace, our tanneries and our white flint
glass down there by Ballybough and our Huguenot poplin
that we have since Jacquard de Lyon and our woven silk
and our Foxford tweeds and ivory raised point from the
Carmelite convent in New Ross, nothing like it in the
whole wide world. Where are the Greek merchants that
came through the pillars of Hercules, the Gibraltar now
grabbed by the foe of mankind, with gold and Tyrian

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