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out of house and home in the black 47。 Their mudcabins and their shielings by the roadside were laid low by the batteringram and the Times rubbed its hands and told the whitelivered Saxons there would soon be as few Irish in Ireland as redskins in America。 Even the grand Turk sent us his piastres。 But the Sassenach tried to starve the nation at home while the land was full of crops that the British hyenas bought and sold in Rio de Janeiro。 Ay； they drove out the peasants in hordes。 Twenty thousand of them died in the coffinships。 But those that came to the land of the free remember the land of bondage。 And they will e again and with a vengeance； no cravens； the sons of Granuaile； the champions of Kathleen ni Houlihan。
Perfectly true； says Bloom。 But my point was。。。
We are a long time waiting for that day； citizen； says Ned。 Since the poor old woman told us that the French were on the sea and landed at Killala。
Ay； says John Wyse。 We fought for the royal Stuarts that reneged us against the Williamites and they betrayed us。 Remember Limerick and the broken treatystone。 We gave our best blood to France and Spain； the wild geese。 Fontenoy； eh？ And Sarsfield and O'Donnell； duke of Tetuan in Spain； and Ulysses Browne of Camus that was fieldmarshal to Maria Teresa。 But what did we ever get for it？
The French！ says the citizen。 Set of dancing masters！ Do you know what it is？ They were never worth a roasted fart to Ireland。 Aren't they trying to make an Entente cordiale now at Tay Pay's dinnerparty with perfidious Albion？ Firebrands of Europe and they always were？
Conspuez les Fran？ais； says Lenehan； nobbling his beer。
And as for the Prooshians and the Hanoverians； says Joe； haven't we had enough of those sausageeating bastards on the throne from George the elector down to the German lad and the flatulent old bitch that's dead？
Jesus； I had to laugh at the way he came out with that about the old one with the winkers on her blind drunk in her royal palace every night of God； old Vic； with her jorum of mountain dew and her coachman carting her up body and bones to roll into bed and she pulling him by the whiskers and singing him old bits of songs about Ehren on the Rhine and e where the boose is cheaper。
Well！ says J。 J。 We have Edward the peacemaker now。
Tell that to a fool； says the citizen。 There's a bloody sight more pox than pax about that boyo。 Edward Guelph…Wettin！
And what do you think； says Joe； of the holy boys； the priests and bishops of Ireland doing up his room in Maynooth in his Satanic Majesty's racing colours and sticking up pictures of all the horses his jockeys rode。 The earl of Dublin； no less。
They ought to have stuck up all the women he rode himself； says little Alf。
And says J。 J。：
Considerations of space influenced their lordship's decision。
Will you try another； citizen？ says Joe。
Yes； sir； says he； I will。
You？ says Joe。
Beholden to you； Joe； says I。 May your shadow never grow less。
Repeat that dose； says Joe。
Bloom was talking and talking with John Wyse and he quite excited with his dunducketymudcoloured mug on him and his old plumeyes rolling about。
Persecution； says he； all the history of the world is full of it。 Perpetuating national hatred among nations。
But do you know what a nation means？ says John Wyse。
Yes； says Bloom。
What is it？ says John Wyse。
A nation？ says Bloom。 A nation is the same people living in the same place。
By God； then； says Ned； laughing； if that's so I'm a nation for I'm living in the same place for the past five years。
So of course everyone had a laugh at Bloom and says he； trying to muck out of it：
Or also living in different places。
That covers my case； says Joe。
What is your nation if I may ask； says the citizen。
Ireland； says Bloom。 I was born here。 Ireland。
The citizen said nothing only cleared the spit out of his gullet and； gob； he spat a Red bank oyster out of him right in the corner。
After you with the push； Joe； says he； taking out his handkerchief to swab himself dry。
Here you are； citizen； says Joe。 Take that in your right hand and repeat after me the following words。
The muchtreasured and intricately embroidered ancient Irish facecloth attributed to Solomon of Droma and Manus Tomaltach og MacDonogh； authors of the Book of Ballymote； was then carefully produced and called forth prolonged admiration。 No need to dwell on the legendary beauty of the cornerpieces； the acme of art； wherein one can distinctly discern each of the four evangelists in turn presenting to each of the four masters his evangelical symbol a bogoak sceptre； 8 North American puma （a far nobler king of beasts than the British article； be it said in passing）； a Kerry calf and a golden eagle from Carrantuohill。 The scenes depicted on the emunctory field； showing our ancient duns and raths and cromlechs and grianauns and seats of learning and maledictive stones； are as wonderfully beautiful and the pigments as delicate as when the Sligo illuminators gave free rein to their artistic fantasy long long ago in the time of the Barmecides。 Glendalough； the lovely lakes of Killarney； the ruins of Clonmacnois； Cong Abbey； Glen Inagh and the Twelve Pins； Ireland's Eye； the Green Hills of Tallaght； Croagh Patrick； the brewery of Messrs Arthur Guinness； Son and pany （Limited）； Lough Neagh's banks； the vale of Ovoca； Isolde's tower； the Mapas obelisk； Sir Patrick Dun's hospital； Cape Clear； the glen of Aherlow； Lynch's castle； the Scotch house； Rathdown Union Workhouse at Loughlinstown； Tullamore jail； Castleconnel rapids； Kilballymacshonakill； the cross at Monasterboice； Jury's Hotel； S。 Patrick's Purgatory； the Salmon Leap； Maynooth college refectory； Curley's hole； the three birthplaces of the first duke of Wellington； the rock of Cashel； the bog of Allen； the Henry Street Warehouse； Fingal's Cave … all these moving scenes are still there for us today rendered more beautiful still by the waters of sorrow which have passed over them and by the rich incrustations of time。 Shove us over the drink； says I。 Which is which？
That's mine； says Joe； as the devil laid to the dead policeman。
And I belong to a race too； says Bloom； that is hated and persecuted。 Also now。 This very moment。 This very instant。
Gob； he near burnt his fingers with the butt of his old cigar。
Robbed； says he。 Plundered。 Insulted。 Persecuted。 Taking what belongs to us by right。 At this very moment； says he； putting up his fist； sold by auction off in Morocco like slaves or cattles。
Are you talking about the new Jerusalem？ says the citizen。
I'm talking about injustice； says Bloom。
Right； says John Wyse。 Stand up to it then with force like men。
That's an almanac picture for you。 Mark for a softnosed bullet。 Old lardyface standing up to the business end of a gun。 Gob； he'd adorn a sweepingbrush； so he would； if he only had a nurse's apron on him。 And then he collapses all of a sudden； twisting around all the opposite； as limp as a wet rag。
But it's no use； says he。 Force； hatred； history； all that。 That's not life for men and women； insult and hatred。 And everybody knows that it's the very opposite of that that is really life。
What？ says A