Jiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty.
Only the harp. Lovely gold glowering light. Girl touched it. Poop of a lovely. Gravy’s rather good fit for a. Golden ship. Erin. The harp that once or twice. Cool hands. Ben Howth, the rhododendrons. We are their harps. I. He. Old. Young.
―Ah, I couldn’t, man, Mr Dedalus said, shy, listless.
Strongly.
―Go on, blast you, Ben Dollard growled. Get it out in bits.
― M’appari , Simon, Father Cowley said.
Down stage he strode some paces, grave, tall in affliction, his long arms outheld. Hoarsely the apple of his throat hoarsed softly. Softly he sang to a dusty seascape there: A Last Farewell . A headland, a ship, a sail upon the billows. Farewell. A lovely girl, her veil awave upon the wind upon the headland wind around her.
Cowley sang:
― M’appari tutt’amor: Il mio sguardo l’incontr …
She waved, unhearing Cowley, her veil to one departing, dear one, to wind, love, speeding sail, return.
―Go on, Simon.
―Ah, sure my dancing days are done, Ben … Well …
Mr Dedalus laid his pipe to rest beside the tuningfork and, sitting, touched the obedient keys.
―No, Simon, Father Cowley turned. Play it in the original. One flat.