PRIVATE CARR: I don't give a bugger who he is.

PRIVATE COMPTON: We don't give a bugger who he is.

STEPHEN: I seem to annoy them. Green rag to a bull.

(KEVIN EGAN OF PARIS IN BLACK SPANISH TASSELLED SHIRT AND PEEP-O'-DAY BOY'S HAT SIGNS TO STEPHEN.)

KEVIN EGAN: H'lo! BONJOUR! The VIEILLE OGRESSE with the DENTS JAUNES.

(PATRICE EGAN PEEPS FROM BEHIND, HIS RABBITFACE NIBBLING A QUINCE LEAF.)

PATRICE: SOCIALISTE!

DON EMILE PATRIZIO FRANZ RUPERT POPE HENNESSY: (IN MEDIEVAL HAUBERK, TWO WILD GEESE VOLANT ON HIS HELM, WITH NOBLE INDIGNATION POINTS A MAILED HAND AGAINST THE PRIVATES) Werf those eykes to footboden, big grand porcos of johnyellows todos covered of gravy!

BLOOM: (TO STEPHEN) Come home. You'll get into trouble.

STEPHEN: (SWAYING) I don't avoid it. He provokes my intelligence.

BIDDY THE CLAP: One immediately observes that he is of patrician lineage.

THE VIRAGO: Green above the red, says he. Wolfe Tone.

THE BAWD: The red's as good as the green. And better. Up the soldiers! Up King Edward!

A ROUGH: (LAUGHS) Ay! Hands up to De Wet.

THE CITIZEN: (WITH A HUGE EMERALD MUFFLER AND SHILLELAGH, CALLS)

    May the God above     Send down a dove     With teeth as sharp as razors     To slit the throats     Of the English dogs     That hanged our Irish leaders.

THE CROPPY BOY: (THE ROPENOOSE ROUND HIS NECK, GRIPES IN HIS ISSUING BOWELS WITH BOTH HANDS)

    I bear no hate to a living thing,     But I love my country beyond the king.

RUMBOLD, DEMON BARBER: (ACCOMPANIED BY TWO BLACKMASKED ASSISTANTS, ADVANCES WITH GLADSTONE BAG WHICH HE OPENS) Ladies and gents, cleaver purchased by Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg. Knife with which Voisin dismembered the wife of a compatriot and hid remains in a sheet in the cellar, the unfortunate female's throat being cut from ear to ear. Phial containing arsenic retrieved from body of Miss Barron which sent Seddon to the gallows.

(HE JERKS THE ROPE. THE ASSISTANTS LEAP AT THE VICTIM'S LEGS AND DRAG HIM DOWNWARD, GRUNTING THE CROPPY BOY'S TONGUE PROTRUDES VIOLENTLY.)

THE CROPPY BOY:

    Horhot ho hray hor hother's hest.

(HE GIVES UP THE GHOST. A VIOLENT ERECTION OF THE HANGED SENDS GOUTS OF SPERM SPOUTING THROUGH HIS DEATHCLOTHES ON TO THE COBBLESTONES. MRS BELLINGHAM, MRS YELVERTON BARRY AND THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS RUSH FORWARD WITH THEIR HANDKERCHIEFS TO SOP IT UP.)

RUMBOLD: I'm near it myself. (HE UNDOES THE NOOSE) Rope which hanged the awful rebel. Ten shillings a time. As applied to Her Royal Highness. (HE PLUNGES HIS HEAD INTO THE GAPING BELLY OF THE HANGED AND DRAWS OUT HIS HEAD AGAIN CLOTTED WITH COILED AND SMOKING ENTRAILS) My painful duty has now been done. God save the king!

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (DANCES SLOWLY, SOLEMNLY, RATTLING HIS BUCKET, AND SINGS WITH SOFT CONTENTMENT)

    On coronation day, on coronation day,
    O, won't we have a merry time,
    Drinking whisky, beer and wine!

PRIVATE CARR: Here. What are you saying about my king?

STEPHEN: (THROWS UP HIS HANDS) O, this is too monotonous! Nothing. He wants my money and my life, though want must be his master, for some brutish empire of his. Money I haven't. (HE SEARCHES HIS POCKETS VAGUELY) GAVE IT TO SOMEONE.

PRIVATE CARR: Who wants your bleeding money?

STEPHEN: (TRIES TO MOVE OFF) Will someone tell me where I am least likely to meet these necessary evils? CA SE VOIT AUSSI A PARIS. Not that I ... But, by Saint Patrick ...!

(THE WOMEN'S HEADS COALESCE. OLD GUMMY GRANNY IN SUGARLOAF HAT APPEARS SEATED ON A TOADSTOOL, THE DEATHFLOWER OF THE POTATO BLIGHT ON HER BREAST.)

STEPHEN: Aha! I know you, gammer! Hamlet, revenge! The old sow that eats her farrow!

OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (ROCKING TO AND FRO) Ireland's sweetheart, the king of Spain's daughter, alanna. Strangers in my house, bad manners to them! (SHE KEENS WITH BANSHEE WOE) Ochone! Ochone! Silk of the kine! (SHE WAILS) You met with poor old Ireland and how does she stand?

STEPHEN: How do I stand you? The hat trick! Where's the third person of the Blessed Trinity? Soggarth Aroon? The reverend Carrion Crow.

CISSY CAFFREY: (SHRILL) Stop them from fighting!

A ROUGH: Our men retreated.

PRIVATE CARR: (TUGGING AT HIS BELT) I'll wring the neck of any fucker says a word against my fucking king.

BLOOM: (TERRIFIED) He said nothing. Not a word. A pure misunderstanding.

THE CITIZEN: ERIN GO BRAGH!

(MAJOR TWEEDY AND THE CITIZEN EXHIBIT TO EACH OTHER MEDALS, DECORATIONS, TROPHIES OF WAR, WOUNDS. BOTH SALUTE WITH FIERCE HOSTILITY.)

PRIVATE COMPTON: Go it, Harry. Do him one in the eye. He's a proboer.

STEPHEN: Did I? When?

BLOOM: (TO THE REDCOATS) We fought for you in South Africa, Irish missile troops. Isn't that history? Royal Dublin Fusiliers. Honoured by our monarch.

THE NAVVY: (STAGGERING PAST) O, yes! O God, yes! O, make the kwawr a krowawr! O! Bo!

(CASQUED HALBERDIERS IN ARMOUR THRUST FORWARD A PENTICE OF GUTTED SPEARPOINTS. MAJOR TWEEDY, MOUSTACHED LIKE TURKO THE TERRIBLE, IN BEARSKIN CAP WITH HACKLEPLUME AND ACCOUTREMENTS, WITH 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.

BLOOM: (SHAKES CISSY CAFFREY'S SHOULDERS) Speak, you! Are you struck dumb? You are the link between nations and generations. Speak, woman, sacred lifegiver!

CISSY CAFFREY: (ALARMED, SEIZES PRIVATE CARR'S SLEEVE) Amn't I with you? Amn't I your girl? Cissy's your girl. (SHE CRIES) Police!

STEPHEN: (ECSTATICALLY, TO CISSY CAFFREY)

    White thy fambles, red thy gan     And thy quarrons dainty is.

VOICES: Police!

DISTANT VOICES: Dublin's burning! Dublin's burning! On fire, on fire!

(BRIMSTONE FIRES SPRING UP. DENSE CLOUDS ROLL PAST. HEAVY GATLING GUNS BOOM. PANDEMONIUM. TROOPS DEPLOY. GALLOP OF HOOFS. ARTILLERY. HOARSE COMMANDS. BELLS CLANG. BACKERS SHOUT. DRUNKARDS BAWL. WHORES SCREECH. FOGHORNS HOOT. CRIES OF VALOUR. SHRIEKS OF DYING. PIKES CLASH ON CUIRASSES. THIEVES ROB THE SLAIN. BIRDS OF PREY, WINGING FROM THE SEA, RISING FROM MARSHLANDS, SWOOPING FROM EYRIES, HOVER SCREAMING, GANNETS, CORMORANTS, VULTURES, GOSHAWKS, CLIMBING WOODCOCKS, PEREGRINES, MERLINS, BLACKGROUSE, SEA EAGLES, GULLS, ALBATROSSES, BARNACLE GEESE. THE MIDNIGHT SUN IS DARKENED. THE EARTH TREMBLES. THE DEAD OF DUBLIN FROM PROSPECT AND MOUNT JEROME IN WHITE SHEEPSKIN OVERCOATS AND BLACK GOATFELL CLOAKS ARISE AND APPEAR TO MANY. A CHASM OPENS WITH A NOISELESS YAWN. TOM ROCHFORD, WINNER, IN ATHLETE'S SINGLET AND BREECHES, ARRIVES AT THE HEAD OF THE NATIONAL HURDLE HANDICAP AND LEAPS INTO THE VOID. HE IS FOLLOWED BY A RACE OF RUNNERS AND LEAPERS. IN WILD ATTITUDES THEY SPRING FROM THE BRINK. THEIR BODIES PLUNGE. FACTORY LASSES WITH FANCY CLOTHES TOSS REDHOT YORKSHIRE BARAABOMBS. SOCIETY LADIES LIFT THEIR SKIRTS ABOVE THEIR HEADS TO PROTECT THEMSELVES. LAUGHING WITCHES IN RED CUTTY SARKS RIDE THROUGH THE AIR ON BROOMSTICKS. QUAKERLYSTER PLASTERS BLISTERS. IT RAINS DRAGONS' TEETH. ARMED HEROES SPRING UP FROM FURROWS. THEY EXCHANGE IN AMITY THE PASS OF KNIGHTS OF THE RED CROSS AND FIGHT DUELS WITH CAVALRY SABRES: WOLFE TONE AGAINST HENRY GRATTAN, SMITH O'BRIEN AGAINST DANIEL O'CONNELL, MICHAEL DAVITT AGAINST ISAAC BUTT, JUSTIN M'CARTHY AGAINST PARNELL, ARTHUR GRIFFITH AGAINST JOHN REDMOND, JOHN O'LEARY AGAINST LEAR O'JOHNNY, LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD AGAINST LORD GERALD FITZEDWARD, THE O'DONOGHUE OF THE GLENS AGAINST THE GLENS OF THE O'DONOGHUE. ON AN EMINENCE, THE CENTRE OF THE EARTH, RISES THE FELDALTAR OF SAINT BARBARA. BLACK CANDLES RISE FROM ITS GOSPEL AND EPISTLE HORNS. FROM THE HIGH BARBACANS OF THE TOWER TWO SHAFTS OF LIGHT FALL ON THE SMOKEPALLED ALTARSTONE. ON THE ALTARSTONE MRS MINA PUREFOY, GODDESS OF UNREASON, LIES, NAKED, FETTERED, A CHALICE RESTING ON HER SWOLLEN BELLY. FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN IN A LACE PETTICOAT AND REVERSED CHASUBLE, HIS TWO LEFT FEET BACK TO THE FRONT, CELEBRATES CAMP MASS. THE REVEREND MR HUGH C HAINES LOVE M. A. IN A PLAIN CASSOCK AND MORTARBOARD, HIS HEAD AND COLLAR BACK TO THE FRONT, HOLDS OVER THE CELEBRANT'S HEAD AN OPEN UMBRELLA.)

FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN: INTROIBO AD ALTARE DIABOLI.

THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: To the devil which hath made glad my young days.

FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN: (TAKES FROM THE CHALICE AND ELEVATES A BLOODDRIPPING HOST) CORPUS MEUM.

THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: (RAISES HIGH BEHIND THE CELEBRANT'S PETTICOAT, REVEALING HIS GREY BARE HAIRY BUTTOCKS BETWEEN WHICH A CARROT IS STUCK) My body.

THE VOICE OF ALL THE DAMNED: Htengier Tnetopinmo Dog Drol eht rof, Aiulella!

(FROM ON HIGH THE VOICE OF ADONAI CALLS.)

ADONAI: Dooooooooooog!

THE VOICE OF ALL THE BLESSED: Alleluia, for the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth!

(FROM ON HIGH THE VOICE OF ADONAI CALLS.)

ADONAI: Goooooooooood!

(IN STRIDENT DISCORD PEASANTS AND TOWNSMEN OF ORANGE AND GREEN FACTIONS SING Kick the Pope AND Daily, daily sing to Mary.)

PRIVATE CARR: (WITH FEROCIOUS ARTICULATION) I'll do him in, so help me fucking Christ! I'll wring the bastard fucker's bleeding blasted fucking windpipe!

OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (THRUSTS A DAGGER TOWARDS STEPHEN'S HAND) Remove him, acushla. At 8.35 a.m. you will be in heaven and Ireland will be free. (SHE PRAYS) O good God, take him!

(THE RETRIEVER, NOSING ON THE FRINGE OF THE CROWD, BARKS NOISILY.)

BLOOM: (RUNS TO LYNCH) Can't you get him away?

LYNCH: He likes dialectic, the universal language. Kitty! (TO BLOOM) Get him away, you. He won't listen to me.

(HE DRAGS KITTY AWAY.)

STEPHEN: (POINTS) EXIT JUDAS. ET LAQUEO SE SUSPENDIT.

BLOOM: (RUNS TO STEPHEN) Come along with me now before worse happens. Here's your stick.

STEPHEN: Stick, no. Reason. This feast of pure reason.

CISSY CAFFREY: (PULLING PRIVATE CARR) Come on, you're boosed. He insulted me but I forgive him. (SHOUTING IN HIS EAR) I forgive him for insulting me.

BLOOM: (OVER STEPHEN'S SHOULDER) Yes, go. You see he's incapable.

PRIVATE CARR: (BREAKS LOOSE) I'll insult him.

(HE RUSHES TOWARDS STEPHEN, FIST OUTSTRETCHED, AND STRIKES HIM IN THE FACE. STEPHEN TOTTERS, COLLAPSES, FALLS, STUNNED. HE LIES PRONE, HIS FACE TO THE SKY, HIS HAT ROLLING TO THE WALL. BLOOM FOLLOWS AND PICKS IT UP.)