MARCACH: horseman; EACH: horse

Each, g. eich, pl. id., eacha and eachra(idh, coll.), m., a horse, a steed; e. Spáinneach, a variety of short horse; e. riata, a trained or coach horse; e. uisce, a water-horse, a mythical inhabitant of lakes (Con., Don.); e. réais, a race-horse; e. cóimhlionga, id., al. a dromedary; e. sléibhe, See under earc [a species of lizard found on moors; al. a term of reproach for a person]; d’e., on horseback. See under cor [cór capall, a troop of horses]; sluagh laighean idir cois agus e., the Leinster forces both mounted and foot; cóiste sé n-e., a coach and six; e. gan srian, an unbridled horse, fig. of fruitless effort; fir na n-e., the horsemen; ar muin an eich, on horseback; mara gcuiridh tú uait na h-eacha tá fút cuirfidh siad earóg ort, if you do not give over the capers you will rue it.

Eachach, -aighe, a., abounding in horses

Eachaidhe, g. id., m., a horseman, a jockey.

Eachaire, g. id., pl. -rí, m., a stable- or horse-boy.

Eachán, -áin, pl. id., m., a reel to wind yarn (O’R.).

Eachan, -ain, m., wind, storm; e. gaoithe., a whirlwind.

Eachanach, -aighe, a., stormy, windy.

Eachlach, -igh, pl. id., m., a horseman, a courier, a cavalryman, hence a messenger, one to tell the tale (after a battle); e. úsláir, a domestic servant; bain-e., a woman courier.

Eachlais, -e, -í, f., a lazy woman; a slattern (used also of a man).

Eachlann, -ainne, -anna, f., a stable; smt. g. -ainn, m..

Eachlsc, -aisce, -a, f., a rod, a whip, a horse-lash; eachlarca ban sídhe, fairy women’s whips, a plant name; al. eachlairc; each-fhlearc (Aur.).

Eachlascaim, --ascadh, v. tr., I horsehwip, I lash.

Each-liaigh, m., a veterinary surgeon.

Each-luath, a., of the swift steeds; an epithet of a prince, warrior, etc.

Eachmaire, g. id., pl. -rí, m., a stallion.

Eachmairt, -e, f., desire of copulation in horses; act of copulation; faoi e., said of a mare in season.

Eachrach, a., handy. See acrach. [Acrach, -aighe, a., convenient, useful, obliging, civil; bean a., a concubine; beidh t’anam-sa go hacrach ar theintibh ceap, your soul will be conveniently settled in the fires (P. F.).]

Eachrach, -aighe, a., abounding in horses, “horsey”; is e. srianta iad, they are well equipped with horses and bridles; e. éideach, mounted and mailed.

Eachraidh, -e, pl. id., m. and f. (coll.), steeds, horses, cavalry; e. ’charlaibh, a team of horses; e ghruagach, a stud of horses with flowing manes; an e. sídhe, the fairy horsemen; smt. eachra, eachradh.

Eachraidhe, pl., accoutrements for a horse as in ploughing, etc.; an bhfuil na he. go léir agat? have you all the accoutrements? (S. O’L.).

Eachraidheas, -dhis, m., harness, etc. U.).

Eachrais, -e, f., a way a road; a passage; a sally; e. con agus giollaí an dúna, a passage for the hounds and servants of the fortress.

Marc, g. mairc, pl. id. and -a, m., a horse; ar muin mairc a chéile, huddled together, in a state of entanglement or disorder.

Marcach, -aigh, pl. id. and -aighe, m., a horseman, a rider, a knight, a noble; a little grain growing by the side or root of a grain of corn; mac uicht, mac ochta (uchta), id.; (Mac Uchta is the appropriate name of a hill near Errigal); m. duana reachaire ghabhas dán, a rider of verse, i.e., a reciter of a poem; m. trúpa, a trooper.

Marcach, -aighe, a., abounding in steeds; al. -mharceach in compd.; ban-mh., female (of horses; Contr.).

Marcachas, -ais, m., horsemanship, riding; do mh. fá gcamallaibh i gcasc chiartha, your gloomy faring in a dark coffin (Br.).

Marcaidhe, g. id., pl. -dhthe, m., a horseman, a rider.

Marcaidheacht, -a, f., act of riding; horsemanship; a ride, a lift, cavalry; dá chéad ar m., two hundred horse (F.F.); fuair sé m., he got a ride on a horse, a drive on a car, etc.; m. ar ghabhar, a ride on a goat; ag m. ar an gcadán, crossing the sea, al. being transported.

Marcán, -áin, pl. id., m., a horseman (Don. Q. L.).

Marc-fhlaith, m., a cavalier.

Marclach, -aigh, m., a cavalcade, a wedding party mounted (Or.); al. a horse-load; a rider, a cavalry-man; al. márclach, málcrach, ⁊c.

Marclann, -ainne, -a, f., a stable.

Marclannach, -aigh, pl. id., m., a groom; an hostler (O’N.).

Marcradh, -aidhe, f., horses, steeds, cavalry.

Marc-shluagha, a., a cavalcade; coll.. horsemen, riders, cavalry.

Marc-shluaghach, a., belonging to cavalry.

Marchuighim, vl. marcaidheacht, v. intr., I ride on horseback, drive on a car, etc., with ar; m. ar each, I ride a horse; smt. without ar.

—Foclóir Gaedhilge agus Béarla, 1927, by Patrick Dinneen

Monbiot: Chasing “the center” is hopeless politics

George Monbiot writes:

... To imagine that Labour could overcome such odds [to win the 2020 general election] by becoming bland, blurred and craven is to succumb to thinking that is simultaneously magical and despairing. Such dreamers argue that Labour has to recapture the middle ground. But there is no such place; no fixed political geography. The middle ground is a magic mountain that retreats as you approach. The more you chase it from the left, the further to the right it moves.

As the social philosopher Karl Polanyi pointed out towards the end of the second world war, when politics offers little choice and little prospect of solving their problems, people seek extreme solutions. Labour’s inability to provide a loud and proud alternative to Conservative policies explains why so much of its base switched to Ukip at the last election. Corbyn’s political clarity explains why the same people are flocking back to him.

Are they returning because he has tailored his policies to appeal to the hard right? Certainly not. They are returning because he stands for something, something that could help them, something that was not devised by a row of spadbot mannikins in suits, consulting their clipboards on Douglas Alexander’s sofa.

Nothing was more politically inept than Labour’s attempt before the election to win back Ukip supporters by hardening its stance on immigration. Why vote for the echo when you can vote for the shout? What is attractive about a party prepared to abandon its core values for the prospect of electoral gain? What is inspiring about a party that grovels, offering itself as a political doormat for any powerful interest or passing fad to wipe its feet on?

In an openDemocracy article, Ian Sinclair compares Labour’s attempts to stop Corbyn with those by the Tories in 1974-75 to stop Margaret Thatcher. Divisive, hated by the press, seen by her own party as an extremist, she was widely dismissed as unelectable. The Tory establishment, convinced that the party could win only from the centre, did everything it could to stop her. ...

The Labour mainstream likes to pretend that Blair’s only breach of faith was the Iraq war. The marketisation of the NHS, the private finance initiative, the criminalisation of peaceful protest, collusion in the kidnap and torture of dissidents from other nations, the collapse of social housing – I could fill this page with a list of such capitulations to greed and tyranny. Blair’s purges, stripping all but courtiers from the lists of potential candidates, explain why the party now struggles to find anyone under 50 who looks like a leader.

The capitulations continued under Ed Miliband, who allowed the Conservative obsession with the deficit and austerity to frame Labour politics. As Paul Krugman explains, austerity is a con that does nothing but harm to the wealth of this nation. It has been discredited everywhere else: only in Britain do we cling to the myth. Yet Miliband walked willingly into the trap. His manifesto promised to “cut the deficit every year” and to adopt such cruel Tory policies as the household benefits cap.

You can choose, if you wish, to believe that this clapped-out, alienating politics – compounded by such gobsmacking acts of cowardice as the failure to oppose the welfare bill – can capture the mood of the nation, reverse Labour’s decline and secure an extra hundred seats. But please stop calling yourself a realist.

Rebuilding a political movement means espousing what is desirable, then finding ways to make it feasible. The hopeless realists propose the opposite. They assemble a threadbare list of policies they consider feasible, then seek to persuade us that this package is desirable. If they retain core values, they’ve become so muddled by tacking and triangulation as to be almost indecipherable.

... the longer Labour keeps repeating the same mistakes – reinforcing the values it should be contesting – the further to the right it will push the nation, and the more remote its chances of election will become. The task is to rebuild the party’s values, reclaim the democratic debate, pull the centre back towards the left and change ... the soul of the nation.

Because Labour’s immediate prospects are so remote, regardless of who wins this contest, the successful candidate is likely to be a caretaker, a curator of the future. His or her task must be to breathe life back into politics, to recharge democracy with choice, to ignite the hope that will make Labour electable again. Only one candidate proposes to do that.

CUIR: put, send

Cuirim, vl. cur (smt. cuir), v. tr. and intr., I put, place, fix, set; plant, sow, bury; shed; send; cause or arrange (to have done, get done); chuir sé a chor i dtalamh, he got a good foothold, took up a firm attitude; cuirfir-se Tadhg, you will outlive (lit. bury) T.; c. péire bróg dá ndéanamh dam féin, I get a pair of boots made for myself: c. biadh dá thabhairt dhó, I have him served with food; chireas mo bhláth, I have wasted my substance; is olc a chireas mo chlann inghean (mo chuid airgid), I have ill-disposed of my daughters (my money); chuiris é! well placed (or put), often iron.; with nouns: c fuil, allus, fearthainn, sneachta, sioc, cloichshneachta, cfudh, faobhar, lorg, boladh, geall, cath, a n-ár, I bleed, perspire, rain, snow, freeze, hail, shoe a horse, sharpen, track, scent, wager, do battle, slaughter them; c. bun, I inquire, find out (Con.) with adverbs: c. a-bhaile, amach, suas, síos, isteach, I send or drive home (as an argument), eject or put forth, set up or build, pull down (al. anuas acc. to context) or set down (in writing or argument) or lay down (as law) I stave or push in or insert; c. suas baidhte, I bait a line; c. suas le, I tolerate; c. suas ar, I prevent; c. duine amach ar chluiche, I defeat a person at a game (Con.); with prepositions: c. le, I send by, charge or impute to, unite, add to, exaggerate, prop up, co-operate with, contend with, place against, abandon to, send to (a trade or profession); c. le dochtúireacht é, I send him to become a doctor; c. taca le, I place a prop against; c. cúl le, I contradict, turn my back on; ní ’gá chur leis é, not charging him with it; with ar: c. ar, I impose as an injunction on, ascribe to, accost, challenge, play on, overbear, interrupt, annoy (gnly., c. isteach ar); c. ort! I challenge you! leigim leat! done! cuireann mo chroidhe orm, my heart gives me trouble; with ar and noun: c. ar bun, siubhal, snámh, cíos, cáirde, ath-lá, crith, neamh-nídh, aghaidh, &c., &c., I establish, set going, launch, let (a house), postpone, id., set atremble, abolish, forward, etc., etc.: with noun and ar: c. (an) dligheadh, lorg, fios, comaoin, eagla, misneach, éagcóir, leigheas, cathughadh, moill, geara, &c., &c., ar, I proceed against, send in search of send for, benefit or oblige, fighten, encourage, wrong, cure or treat, challenge or tempt, delay, enjoin upon, etc. etc.; chuir sé nósa agus reachta agus athchóirighthe ar na h-easbhadhaibh, he drew up customs, laws, and reformations to meet these needs; with de, noun and ar: c. d’fhiachaibh, d’ualach, d’oibliogáid, de chúram, de bhreith, de choingheall, &rl., ar, I order, impose as a duty, as an obligation, as a charge, as a judgment or forfeit, condtion on, etc.; with iar (ar), c. ar gchúl, I put back, postpone, neutralise, reduce (as an abscess); with thar, c. tharm, I pass from, ignore, put round me, put over me (of time); cuir do lámh tharm, embrace me; with ó, c. uaim, I put away, give up; chuir sé litir uaidh, he sent a letter; bhi sé ag cur uaidh, he was in a state of terror, relaxing, exuding; c. ó oidhreacht, I disinherit; c. ó chóta, I unfrock; c. ó chion, I seriously injure; c. ó rath, id.; c. ó theist, I put out of court, discredit (F. F.); with ag: c. agam, I emit, utter; chuireadh sé agam, he used to attack me (Con.); chuir sé an madradh agam, he set the dog at me; chuir sé an gadhar liom, id.; with noun: c. liúgh, fead, geoin, scread, &rl, agam, I emit a shout, whistle, yell, scream, etc.; c. as ionad, áit, as a thalamh é, ag a riocht é, I dislocate, displace, evict him, distort it; ná bí ag cur ag dam, do not be upsetting me; cad tá ag cur ag dó? what ails him? with i and noun: c. i n-iúl (umhail), i dtuiscint (dtuigsint) do, I inform; c. i gcéill do, id., al. I pretend to; c. i gcár, I take as an instance; c. igcóir, i bhfearas, i ngléas, i n-oireamhaint, i bhfuirm &rl., I make ready, gear up, etc.; c. i leith, i dtairce, i n-iongantas, i bhfeidhm, i gcontabhairt, i n-éag, i ngníomh, I impute to, store up, wonder at, use or execute (as a decree, etc.), doubt or endanger, extinguish, relinquish (as a habit) practise, carry out; c. i suim, I take notice of; c. i neamh-shuim, I slight, take no notice of; c. i ndímbrígh, id.; c. grian i slánadh fá, I call the sun to witness regarding; c. i bhfaoistin, I tell in confession, confess; c. i gceann, I add to; with noun and i: c. spéis (suim) dúil, cearbh, sonnradh, contabhairt, i, &rl., I take interest in, desire, covet, notice, doubt, etc.; with tré, I mix: c. ola tríd, I mix oil with it; c. tré chéile iad, I confuse or mix them; with fá, I incite; c. fúm, I settle down, squat; with fá and noun, I bind, restrain, etc.; c. fá gheasaibh iad, I bind them (with taboos); c. fá smacht iad, I reduce them to discipline; c. duine fá choimirce, I place one nder the protection of; c. fá deara dhó, I compel or order him; c. fá bhreitheamhnas aithrighe, I enjoin as a penance upon; with noun and fá, I apply (as binding, grease, ointment, motion) to:; with de: c. díom, I disrobe, doff, shed, cease using, hearing, etc., pressed, pass my days; c. an cnoc aníos díom, I go up the hill; cionnas taoi ag cur díot? how are you geting on? cuir díot! give over! be off! bí ag cur díot! be off! bhí sé ag cur alluis um, he was sweating profusely; with um: c umam, I don; cuir umat! dress! c. suas de, I give up or cease; with roimh: c. sómhamI propose for myself, decide, underake, put in front of myself; with chum, I set about: ch. chum bóthair, I set off; c. chum siubhail, I send off or dimsiss; c. chum cíosa, I set at a rent; c. chugham, I appropriate, put in my breast, pocket, etc.; c. siopa chugham, I open a shop; c. buidheach, I please, make thankful (poet.).

—Foclóir Gaedhilge agus Béarla, 1927, by Patrick Dinneen

Also see entry at: Foclóir Gaeilge-Béarla, 1977, by Niall Ó Dónaill, as well as: cuir amach, cuir aníos, cuir anuas, cuir ar, cuir as, cuir chuig, cuir de, cuir do, cuir faoi, cuir i, cuir isteach, cuir le, cuir ó, cuir roimh, cuir siar, cuir síos, cuir suas, cuir thar, cuir thart, cuir trí, and cuir um.

See also: Cuir & Bain.

Mrs. Sheehy Skeffington’s Statement: Her Husband’s Last Hours

The following statement was published by Mrs. Sheehy Skeffington respecting the arrest and shooting of her husband.

I last saw my husband on Tuesday evening, April 25, between 5.15 and 5.30 at Westmoreland Chambers. He had called a meeting there to stop looting (see enclosed poster), and was waiting to see if any people would attend same. On that and the previous day he had been active personally, with help from bystanders, at the same work, and had succeeded in stopping some looting by personal efforts and appeals. All this, there is independent evidence to testify. On Monday afternoon outside Dublin Castle an officer was reported bleeding to death in the street, and, the crowd being afraid, owing to the firing, to go to his assistance, my husband himself went, at imminent danger to his life, to drag away the wounded man to a place of safety, to find, however, that by that time the body had been rescued by some soldiers, there being left merely a pool of blood. This incident can also be corroborated.

He stated to me that if none turned up to help on Tuesday at the meeting to prevent looting that he would come home as usual to his house at 11 Grosvenor place. He was afterwards seen by several friends (whose testimony I possess) going home about 6.30. In the neighbourhood of Portobello Bridge he was arrested, unarmed and unresisting. He never carried or possessed any arm of any description, being, as is well known, a pacifist and opposed to the use of physical force.

He was conducted in military custody to Portobello Barracks, wnere he was shot without trial on that night or early on the following morning. No priest was summoned to attend him, no notification was, or has since been, given to me (his wife) or to his family of his death, and no message written before his death has been allowed to reach me.

Repeated inquiries at the barracks and elsewhere have been met with refusal to answer, and when my sisters, Mrs. Kettle and Mrs. Culhane, called at Portobello Barracks on Thursday, April 27, to inquire they were put under temporary arrest.

HOUSE SURROUNDED.

On Friday night, April 28, a large military force surrounded my husband’s house at 11 Grosvenor place, fired without warning on the windows in front, which they burst through without waiting for the door to be opened. They put myself, my son, aged seven, to whom they shouted “Hands up!” and my maid (the sole occupants) under arrest, and remained in the house for over three hours. They found no ammunition of any kind, but burst locks, etc., and took away with them a large number of documents, newspapers, letters, and books, as well as various persona! property, such as linen, tablecloths, trunks, photograph of Mr. Keir Hardie and M. Davitt, a picture of the Kilmainham prisoners of 1882, a green flag, etc. Most of the books taken were German and Irish books (grammars, school texts, etc.) relating to my work as teacher of modern languages and to my husband’s journalistic work. One officer remarked that this was not a “very exciting search.”

On Monday, May 1, during my absence, the soldiers again entered the house and searched it, and took prisoner Margaret Farrelly (the only then occupant), a temporary maid whom I had engaged, my former maid having teen too terrified to stay. She was detained in custody until the following Saturday (May 6) in the Rathmines Police Station, and kept there in custody without the knowledge of her friends, without any charge being made against her. Finally, the authorities in Dublin Castle allowed her to be released, but without apology or compensation.

I demand the fullest inquiry into all the above circumstances, and desire, as my husband’s next-of-kin, to be legally represented at any inquiry that may take place.

(Signed) Hanna Sheehy Skeffington.
May 9. 1916.

PS.—Since the above was written my husband’s body was dug up from Portobello Barracks and transferred to Glasnevin Cemetery, again without my knowledge.

The following are details of his last hours that have reached me through various private sources:

He refused to be blindfolded, and met death with a smile on his lips, saying before he died that the authorities would find out after his death what a mistake they made. He put his hand to his eyes, and the bullet passed through his hand to his brain.

THE POSTER.

The poster referred to above and distributed in the city on Tuesday, April 25, when the police were cleared off the streets, is as follows:—

“When there are no regular police in the streets it becomes the duty of the citizens to police the streets themselves to prevent such spasmodic looting as has taken place.

“Civilians (both men and women) who are willing to co-operate to this end are asked to attend at Westmoreland Chambers (over Eden Bros.) at five o’clock on this (Tuesday) afternoon.

“Francis Sheehy Skeffington.”

—Sinn Féin Rebellion Handbook, 1917, Weekly Irish Times
(The report of the Royal Commission of Inquiry, Four Courts, Dublin, Wednesday, 23rd August, to Thursday, 31st August, 1916, into the circumstances connected with the shooting of Francis Sheehy Skeffington, Thomas Dickson, and Patrick J. Maclntyre, on 25th April, 1916, at Portobello Barracks, is reproduced in pages 206-224 of the Handbook.)

Speech at the Grave of O’Donovan Rossa

Pádraig Pearse, August 1, 1915

It has been thought right, before we turn away from this place in which we have laid the mortal remains of O’Donovan Rossa that one among us should, in the name of all, speak the praise of that valiant man, and endeavour to formulate the thought and the hope that are in us as we stand around his grave. And if there is anything that makes it fitting that I rather than another, I rather than one of the greyhaired men who were young with him and shared in his labour and in his suffering, should speak here, it is perhaps that I may be taken as speaking on behalf of a new generation that has been re-baptised in the Fenian faith and that has accepted the responsibility of carrying out the Fenian programme.

I propose to you then that, here by the grave of this unrepentant Fenian, we renew our baptismal vows; that, here by the grave of this unconquered and unconquerable man, we ask of God, each one for himself, such unshakable purpose, such high and gallant courage, such unbreakable strength of soul as belonged to O’Donovan Rossa. Deliberately here we avow ourselves, as he avowed himself in the dock, Irishmen of one allegiance only. We of the Irish volunteers and you others who are associated with us in today’s task and duty are bound together and must stand together henceforth in brotherly union for the achievement of the freedom of Ireland.

And we know only one definition of freedom: it is Tone’s definition, it is Mitchel’s definition, it is Rossa’s definition. Let no man blaspheme the cause that the dead generations of Ireland served by giving it any other name or definition than their name and their definition.

We stand at Rossa’s grave not in sadness but rather in exaltation of spirit that it has been given to us to come thus into so close a communion with that brave and splendid Gael. Splendid and holy causes are served by men who are themselves splendid and holy. O’Donovan Rossa was splendid in the proud manhood of him, splendid in the heroic grace of him, splendid in the Gaelic strength and clarity and truth of him. All that splendour and pride and strength was compatible with a humility and a simplicity of devotion to Ireland, to all that was olden and beautiful and Gaelic in Ireland, the holiness and simplicity of patriotism of a Michael O’Cleary or of an Eoghan O’Growney.

The clear true eyes of this man almost alone in his day visioned Ireland as we of today would surely have her: not free merely, but Gaelic as well; not Gaelic merely, but free as well.

In a closer spiritual communion with him now than ever before or perhaps ever again, in spiritual communion with those of his day, living and dead, who suffered with him in English prisons, in communion of spirit too with our own dear comrades who suffer in English prisons today, and speaking on their behalf as well as on our own. we pledge to Ireland our love, and we pledge to English rule in Ireland our hate.

This is a place of peace, sacred to the dead, where men should speak with all charity and with all restraint, but I hold it a Christian thing, as O’Donovan Rossa held it, to hate evil, to hate untruth, to hate oppression; and, hating them, to strive to overthrow them. Our foes are strong and wise and wary; but, strong and wise and wary as they are, they cannot undo the miracles of God who ripens in the hearts of young men the seeds sown by the young men of a former generation. And the seeds sown by the young men of ’65 and ’67 are coming to their miraculous ripening today.

Rulers and Defenders of Realms had need to be wary if they would guard against such processes. Life springs from death: and from the graves of patriot men and women spring living nations. The Defenders of this Realm have worked well in secret and in the open. They think that they have pacified Ireland. They think that they have purchased half of us and intimidated the other half. They think that they have foreseen everything, think that they have provided against everything; but the fools, the fools, the fools! — they have left us our Fenian dead, and, while Ireland holds these graves, Ireland unfree shall never be at peace.

James Joyce Encounters Before and With the 1916 Uprising in Ireland

In Ulysses, the characters of Mr Deasy and the citizen are extreme representations of opposite obsolete political views. The uprising of Easter Week 1916 was directed by men and women very much in the 20th century. (Ulysses was written from 1914 to 1922, published before the civil war began; Finnegans Wake was written from 1922 to 1939, published after the establishment of the Free State and steps toward the modern Republic.)

==================

Mr Deasy drives away Stephen Dedalus, who was leaving anyway (end of chapter 2, Ulysses):

He went out by the open porch and down the gravel path under the trees, hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks from the playfield. The lions couchant on the pillars as he passed out through the gate; toothless terrors. Still I will help him in his fight. Mulligan will dub me a new name: the bullockbefriending bard.

—Mr Dedalus!

Running after me. No more letters, I hope.

—Just one moment.

—Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate.

Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.

—I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland, they say, has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews. Do you know that? No. And do you know why?

He frowned sternly on the bright air.

—Why, sir, Stephen asked, beginning to smile.

—Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said solemnly.

A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his lifted arms waving to the air.

—She never let them in, he cried again through his laughter as he stamped on gaitered feet over the gravel of the path. That's why.

On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.

==================

The citizen drives away Leopold Bloom, who was leaving anyway (end of chapter 12, Ulysses):

Gob, the citizen made a plunge back into the shop.

—By Jesus, says he, I’ll brain that bloody jewman for using the holy name. By Jesus, I’ll crucify him so I will. Give us that biscuitbox here.

—Stop! stop! says Joe.

[...]

Gob, the devil wouldn’t stop him till he got hold of the bloody tin anyhow and out with him and little Alf hanging on to his elbow and he shouting like a stuck pig, as good as any bloody play, in the Queen’s royal theatre.

—Where is he till I murder him?

And Ned and J. G. paralysed with the laughing.

—Bloody wars, says I, I’ll be in for the last gospel.

But as luck would have it the jarvey got the nag’s head round the other way and off with him.

—Hold on, citizen, says Joe. Stop!

Begob he drew his hand and made a swipe and let fly. Mercy of God the sun was in his eyes or he’d have left him for dead. Gob, he near sent it into the county Longford. The bloody nag took fright and the old mongrel after the car like bloody hell and all the populace shouting and laughing and the old tinbox clattering along the street.

[...]

—Did I kill him, says he, or what?

And he shouting to the bloody dog:

—After him, Garry! After him, boy!

And the last we saw was the bloody car rounding the corner and old sheepsface on it gesticulating and the bloody mongrel after it with his lugs back for all he was bloody well worth to tear him limb from limb. Hundred to five! Jesus, he took the value of it out of him, I promise you.

When, lo, there came about them all a great brightness and they beheld the chariot wherein He stood ascend to heaven. And they beheld Him in the chariot, clothed upon in the glory of the brightness, having raiment as of the sun, fair as the moon and terrible that for awe they durst not look upon Him. And there came a voice out of heaven, calling : Elijah! Elijah! And He answered with a main cry : Abba! Adonai! And they beheld Him even Him, ben Bloom Elijah, amid clouds of angels ascend to the glory of the brightness at an angle of fortyfive degrees over Donohoe’s in Little Green Street like a shot off a shovel.

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Archdruid Berkeley rages against Saint Patrick, who, with the magic of the triune shamrock, transforms shit into the sun of a new day for Ireland (in last chapter (17) of Finnegans Wake):

That was thing, bygotter, the thing, bogcotton, the very thing, begad! Even to uptoputty Bilkilly-Belkelly-Balkally. Who was for shouting down the shatton on the lamp of Jeeshees. Sweating on to stonker and throw his seven. As he shuck his thumping fore features apt the hoyhop of His Ards.

Thud.

Good safe firelamp! hailed the heliots. Goldselforelump! Halled they. Awed. Where thereon the skyfold high, trampatrampatramp. Adie. Per ye comdoom doominoom noonstroom. Yeasome priestomes. Fullyhum toowhoom.

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Patrick Pearse on education (“The Murder Machine”, 1913):

It seems to me that there has been nothing nobler in the history of education than this development of the old Irish plan of fosterage under a Christian rule, when to the pagan ideals of strength and truth there were added the Christian ideals of love and humility. And this, remember, was not the education system of an aristocracy, but the education system of a people. It was more democratic than any education system in the world to-day. Our very divisions into primary, secondary, and university crystallise a snobbishness partly intellectual and partly social.

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Proclamation of the Irish Republic (Easter Monday, 1916, assumed to be mostly written by Patrick Pearse)

In every generation the Irish people have asserted their right to national freedom and sovereignty: six times during the past three hundred years they have asserted it in arms. Standing on that fundamental right and again asserting it in arms in the faces of the world, we hereby proclaim the Irish Republic as a Sovereign Independent State, and we pledge our lives and the lives of our comrades-in-arms to the cause of its freedom, of its welfare, and of its exaltation among the nations.

... the Republic guarantees religious and civil liberty, equal rights and equal opportunities to all its citizens, and declares its reolve to pursue the happiness and prosperity of the whole nation and of all its parts, cherishing all the children of the nation equally, and oblivious of the differences carefully fostered by an alien government, which have divided a minority from the majority in the past.

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The sun of a new day is proclaimed, to awaken Dublin (start of last chapter of Finnegans Wake):

Sandhyas! Sandhyas! Sandhyas!

Calling all downs. Calling all downs to dayne. Array! Surrection! Eireweeker to the wohld bludyn world. O rally, O rally, O rally! Phlenxty, O rally! ... Sonne feine, somme feehn avaunt! ...

The eversower of the seeds of light to the cowld owld sowls that are in the domnatory of Defmut after the night of the carrying of the word of Nuahs and the night of making Mehs to cuddle up in a coddlepot, Pu Nuseht, lord of risings in the yonderworld of Ntamplin, tohp triumphant, speaketh.

... Arcthuris comeing! ... As of yours. We annew. ... A flasch and, rasch, it shall come to pasch, as hearth by hearth leaps live. ... It's a long long ray to Newirgland's premier. ...

Oyes! Oyeses! Oyesesyeses! The primace of the Gaulls, protonotorious, I yam as I yam, mitrogenerand in the free state on the air, is now aboil to blow a Gael warning. Inoperation Eyrlands Eyot, Meganesia, Habitant and the onebut thousand insels, Western and Osthern Approaches.

... Into the wikeawades warld from sleep we are passing.

Muta: So that when we shall have acquired unification we shall pass on to diversity and when we shall have passed on the diversity we shall have acquired the instinct of combat and when we shall have acquired the instinct of combat we shall pass back to the spirit of appeasement?

Juva: By the light of the bright reason which daysends to us from the high.

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The river Liffey flows out past Dublin rising (end of Finnegans Wake):

Rise up, man of the hooths, you have slept so long! ... You were pleased as Punch, recitating war exploits and pearse orations to them jackeen gapers. ... It’s Phoenix, dear. And the flame is, hear! ... Come! Step out of your shell! Hold up you free fing! ... You invoiced him last Eatster so he ought to give us hockockles and everything. Every letter is hard but yours sure is the hardest crux ever. ... But once done, dealt and delivered, tattat, you’re on the map. ... So content me now. Lss. Unbuild and be buildn our bankaloan cottage there and we’ll cohabit respectable. ... For the loves of sinfintins! ... Why I’m all these years within years in soffran, allbeleaved. To hide away the tear, the parted. It’s thinking of all. The brave that gave their. The fair that wore. All them that’s gunne. I’ll begin again in a jiffey. The nik of a nad. How glad you’ll be I waked you! my! How well you’ll feel! For ever after. First we turn by the vagurin here and then it’s gooder. So side by side, turn agate, weddingtown, laud men of Londub! I only hope whole the heavens sees us. ... Finn, again! Take. Bussoftlhee, mememormee! Till thousendsthee. Lps. The keys to. Given!

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James Connolly, Workers’ Republic, 8 April 1916:

In these days of doubt, despair, and resurgent hope we fling our banner to the breeze, the flag of our fathers, the symbol of our national redemption, the sunburst shining over an Ireland re-born.

Why the Insurrection Happened

From The Insurrection in Dublin, by James Stephens, 1916:

It happened because the leader of the Irish Party misrepresented his people in the English House of Parliament. On the day of the declaration of war between England and Germany he took the Irish case, weighty with eight centuries of history and tradition, and he threw it out of the window. He pledged Ireland to a particular course of action, and he had no authority to give this pledge and he had no guarantee that it would be met. The ramshackle intelligence of his party and his own emotional nature betrayed him and us and England. He swore Ireland to loyalty as if he had Ireland in his pocket, and could answer for her. Ireland has never been disloyal to England, not even at this epoch, because she has never been loyal to England, and the profession of her National faith has been unwavering, has been known to every English person alive, and has been clamant to all the world beside.

Is it that he wanted to be cheered? He could very easily have stated Ireland’s case truthfully, and have proclaimed a benevolent neutrality (if he cared to use the grandiloquent words) on the part of this country. He would have gotten his cheers, he would in a few months have gotten Home Rule in return for Irish soldiers. He would have received politically whatever England could have safely given him. But, alas, these carefulnesses did not chime with his emotional moment. They were not magnificent enough for one who felt that he was talking not to Ireland or to England, but to the whole gaping and eager earth, and so he pledged his country’s credit so deeply that he did not leave her even one National rag to cover herself with.

After a lie truth bursts out, and it is no longer the radiant and serene goddess knew or hoped for – it is a disease, it is a moral syphilis and will ravage until the body in which it can dwell has been purged. Mr. Redmond told the lie and he is answerable to England for the violence she had to be guilty of, and to Ireland for the desolation to which we have had to submit. Without his lie there had been no Insurrection; without it there had been at this moment, and for a year past, an end to the “Irish question.” Ireland must in ages gone have been guilty of abominable crimes or she could not at this juncture have been afflicted with a John Redmond.

He is the immediate cause of this our latest Insurrection – the word is big, much too big for the deed, and we should call it row, or riot, or squabble, in order to draw the fact down to its dimensions, but the ultimate blame for the trouble between the two countries does not fall against Ireland.

The fault lies with England, and in these days while an effort is being made (interrupted, it is true, by cannon) to found a better understanding between the two nations it is well that England should recognize what she has done to Ireland, and should try at least to atone for it. The situation can be explained almost in a phrase. We are a little country and you, a huge country, have persistently beaten us. We are a poor country and you, the richest country in the world, have persistently robbed us. That is the historical fact, and whatever national or political necessities are opposed in reply, it is true that you have never given Ireland any reason to love you, and you cannot claim her affection without hypocrisy or stupidity.

You think our people can only be tenacious in hate – it is a lie. Our historical memory is truly tenacious, but during the long and miserable tale of our relations you have never given us one generosity to remember you by, and you must not claim our affection or our devotion until you are worthy of them. We are a good people; almost we are the only Christian people left in the world, nor has any nation shown such forbearance towards their persecutor as we have always shown to you. No nation has forgiven its enemies as we have forgiven you, time after time down the miserable generations, the continuity of forgiveness only equalled by the continuity of your ill-treatment. Between our two countries you have kept and protected a screen of traders and politicians who are just as truly your enemies as they are ours. In the end they will do most harm to you for we are by this vaccinated against misery but you are not, and the “loyalists” who sell their own country for a shilling will sell another country for a penny when the opportunity comes and safety with it.

Meanwhile do not always hasten your presents to us out of a gun. You have done it so often that your guns begin to bore us, and you have now an opportunity which may never occur again to make us your friends. There is no bitterness in Ireland against you on account of this war, and the lack of ill-feeling amongst us is entirely due to the more than admirable behaviour of the soldiers whom you sent over here. A peace that will last for ever can be made with Ireland if you wish to make it, but you must take her hand at once, for in a few months’ time she will not open it to you; the old, bad relations will re-commence, the rancor will be born and grow, and another memory will be stored away in Ireland’s capacious and retentive brain.