Page 977 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

epaulettes, gilt chevrons and sabretaches, his breast bright with
medals, toes the line. He gives the pilgrim warrior’s sign of the
knights templars.)

MAJOR TWEEDY: (Growls gruffly) Rorke’s Drift! Up,
guards, and at them! Mahar shalal hashbaz.
PRIVATE CARR: I’ll do him in.
PRIVATE COMPTON: (Waves the crowd back) Fair
play, here. Make a bleeding butcher’s shop of the bugger.
(Massed bands blare Garryowen and God save the King.)
CISSY CAFFREY: They’re going to fight. For me!
CUNTY KATE: The brave and the fair.
BIDDY THE CLAP: Methinks yon sable knight will
joust it with the best.
CUNTY KATE: (Blushing deeply) Nay, madam. The
gules doublet and merry saint George for me!
STEPHEN:

The harlot’s cry from street to street
Shall weave Old Ireland’s windingsheet.

PRIVATE CARR: (Loosening his belt, shouts) I’ll wring
the neck of any fucking bastard says a word against my
bleeding fucking king.

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