Read Complete Works of James Joyce Online
Authors: Unknown
Complete Works of James Joyce (333 page)
(Air:
Killaloo
)
Don’t talk of Congo Stanley
Or Livingstone the manly
Or the boys walked marching, parching
from Atlanta to the sea.
When I lift me left lad lazy,
Begor, I take it aisy.
Dijon - Lyon - par Avignon -
It’s long toulong for me!
J’y- J’y-
(suis le reste)
or Dalton’s Dilemma
What colour’s Jew Joyce when he’s rude and grim both,
Varied virid from groening and rufous with rage
And if this allrotter’s allred as a roth
Can he still blush unirish yet green as a gage?
A translation of Gottfried Keller’s “Lebendig Begraben”
Now have I fed and eaten up the rose
Which then she laid within my stiffcold hand.
That I should ever feed upon a rose
I never had believed in liveman’s land.
Only I wonder was it white or red
The flower that in this dark my food has been.
Give us, and if Thou give, thy daily bread,
Deliver us from evil, Lord. Amen.
(Air: Father O’Flynn)
O Father O’Ford you’ve a masterful way with you.
Maid, wife and widow are wild to make hay with you
Blonde and brunette turn-about run away with you.
You’ve such a way with you, Father O’Ford.
That instant they see the sunshine from your eyes
Their hearts flitter flutter, they think and they sigh:
We kiss ground before thee, we madly adore thee
And crave and implore thee to take us, O Lord!
Buy a book in brown paper
From Faber and Faber
To see Annie Liffey trip, tumble and caper.
Sevensinns in her singthings,
Plurabells on her prose,
Seashell ebb music wayriver she flows.
To Mrs H. G. who complained that her visitors kept late hou
r
s
Go ca’canny with the cognac
And of the Wine fight shy,
Keep your eye upon the hourglass
That leaves the beaker dry.
Guestfriendliness to callers
Is your surest thief of time,
They’re so much at holmes when with you
They don’t dream of gugging heim.
Humptydump Dublin squeaks through his nor
s
e
Humptydump Dublin squeaks through his norse,
Humptydump Dublin hath a horriple vorse,
And, with all his kinks english
Plus his irishmanx brogues,
Humpydump Dublin’s grandada of rogues.
(Please note: the first three stanzas are by James Stephens)
The wind stood up and gave a shout.
He whistled on his fingers and
Kicked the withered leaves about
And thumped the branches with his hand
And said he’d kill and kill and kill,
And so he will and so he will.
Der Wind stand auf, liess los einen Schrei,
Pfiff mit den Fingern schrill dabei.
Wirbelte durres Laub durch den Wald
Und hammerte Aste mit Riesengewalt.
Zum Tod, heult, zum Tod und Mord!
Und meint es ernst : ein Wind, ein Wort.
Vinden staar op med en vild Huru,
Han piber paa fingerne og nu
Sparker bladenes flyvende flok.
Traeerne troer han er Ragnarok
Skovens liv og blod vil han draebe og drikke.
Hvad der bliver at goere, det ved ieg ikke.
Le vent d’un saut lance son cri,
Se siffle sur les doigts et puis
Trépigne les feuilles d’automne,
Craque les branches qu’il assomme.
Je tuerai, crie-t-il, holà!
Et vous verrez s’il le fera!
Surgit Boreas digitorum
Fistulam, faciens et clamor em.
Pes pugno certat par (oremus!)
Foliis quatit omne nemus.
Caedam, ait, caedam, caedam!
Nos ne habeat il le praedam.
Balza in piè Fra Vento egrida.
Tre dita in bocca fischia la sfida.
Tira calci, pesta botte:
Ridda di foglie e frasche rotte.
Ammazzero, ei urla, O gente!
E domeneddio costui non mente diuraddio
As I was going to Joyce Saint James
’
As I was going to Joyce Saint James’
I met with seven extravagant dames;
Every dame had a bee in her bonnet,
With bats from the belfry roosting upon it.
And Ah, I said, poor Joyce Saint James,
What can he do with these terrible dames?
Poor Saint James Joyce.
A Pierre de Lanux
dit Valéry Larbaud
prête moi un dux
qui peut conduire l’assault
mes pioux piou sont fondus
et meurent de malaise
sois ton petit tondu
pour la gloire d’Ares
Lanux de la Pierre
à Beaulard fit réplique
foute-moi la guerre
avec tes soldiques
car pour l’Italie
presto fais tes malles
tire ta bonne partie
avec quelques balles
à ces mots Leryval
file en obobus
et comme le vieux Hannibal
perce le blocus
à peine atterre sa mine
qu’on crie à la foire
un sous la Mursoline
pour l’arrats de gloire
A Portrait of the Artist as an Ancient Marin
e
r
I met with an ancient scribelleer
As I scoured the pirates’ sea
His sailes were alullt at nought coma null
Not raise the wind could he.
The bann of Bull, the sign of Sam
Burned crimson on his brow.
And I rocked at the rig of his bricabrac brig
With K.O. 11 on his prow
Shakefears & Coy danced poor old joy
And some of their steps were corkers
As they shook the last shekels like phantom freckels
His pearls that had poisom porkers
The gnome Norbert read rich bills of fare
The ghosts of his deep debauches
But there was no bibber to slip that scribber
The price of a box of matches
For all cried, Schuft! He has lost the Luft
That made his U.boat go
And what a weird leer wore that scribelleer
As his wan eye winked with woe.
He dreamed of the goldest sands uprolled
By the silviest Beach of Beaches
And to watch it dwindle gave him Kugelkopfschwindel
Till his eyeboules bust their stitches
His hold shipped seas with a drunkard’s ease
And its deadweight grew and grew
While the witless wag still waived his flag
Jemmyrend’s white and partir’s blue.
His tongue stuck out with a dragon’s drouth
For a sluice of schweppes and brandy
And but for the glows on his roseate nose
Youd have staked your goat he was Gandhi.
For the Yanks and Japs had made off with his traps
So that stripped to the stern he clung
While, increase of a cross, an Albatross
Abaft his nape was hung.
Sing a song of shillings
A guinea cannot buy,
Thirteen tiny pomikins
Bobbing in a pie.
The printer’s pie was published
And the pomes began to sing
And wasn’t Herbert Hughesius
As happy as a king!
There’s a genial young poetriarch Eu
g
e
There’s a genial young poetriarch Euge
Who hollers with heartiness huge:
Let sick souls sob for solace
So the
jeunes
joy with Jolas!
Book your berths!
Après mot, le déluge.