-- their syphilisation, you mean, says the citizen. to hell with them! the curse of a goodfornothing god light sideways on the bloody thicklugged sons of whores' gets! no music and no art and no literature worthy of the name. any civilisation they have they stole from us. tonguetied sons of bastards' ghosts.
-- the european family, says j. j...
-- they're not european, says the citizen. i was in europe with kevin egan of paris. you wouldn't see a trace of them or their language anywhere in europe except in a cabinet d'aisance.
and says john wyse:
-- full many a flower is born to blush unseen.
and says lenehan that knows a bit of the lingo:
-- conspuez les anglais! perde albion!
he said and then lifted he in his rude great brawny strengthy hands the medher of dark strong foamy ale and, uttering his tribal slogan lamh dearg abu, he drank to the undoing of his foes, a race of mighty valorous heroes, rulers of the waves, who sit on thrones of alabaster silent as the deathless gods.
-- what's up with you, says i to lenehan. you look like a fellow that had lost a bob and found a tanner.
-- gold cup, says he.
-- who won, mr lenehan? says terry.
-- throwaway, says he, at twenty to one. a rank outsider. and the rest nowhere.
-- and bass's mare? says terry.
-- still running, says he. we're all in a cart. boylan plunged two quid on my tip sceptre for himself and a lady friend.