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- Джеймс Джойс
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—
Full
many
a
flower
is
born
to
blush
unseen
.
And
says
Lenehan
that
knows
a
bit
of
the
lingo
:
—
Conspuez
les
Anglais
!
Perfide
Albion
!
He
said
and
then
lifted
he
in
his
rude
great
brawny
strengthy
hands
the
medher
of
dark
strong
foamy
ale
and
,
uttering
his
tribal
slogan
Lamh
Dearg
Abu
,
he
drank
to
the
undoing
of
his
foes
,
a
race
of
mighty
valorous
heroes
,
rulers
of
the
waves
,
who
sit
on
thrones
of
alabaster
silent
as
the
deathless
gods
.
—
What
’
s
up
with
you
,
says
I
to
Lenehan
.
You
look
like
a
fellow
that
had
lost
a
bob
and
found
a
tanner
.
—
Gold
cup
,
says
he
.
—
Who
won
,
Mr
Lenehan
?
says
Terry
.
—
Throwaway
,
says
he
,
at
twenty
to
one
.
A
rank
outsider
.
And
the
rest
nowhere
.
—
And
Bass
’
s
mare
?
says
Terry
.
—
Still
running
,
says
he
.
We
’
re
all
in
a
cart
.
Boylan
plunged
two
quid
on
my
tip
Sceptre
for
himself
and
a
lady
friend
.
