Ulysses

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lost cause.
He strode away from them towards the window.
—They went forth to battle, Mr O’Madden Burke said
greyly, but they always fell.
—Boohoo! Lenehan wept with a little noise. Owing to a
brick received in the latter half of the matinée. Poor, poor,
poor Pyrrhus!
He whispered then near Stephen’s ear:

LENEHAN’S LIMERICK

There’s a ponderous pundit MacHugh

Who wears goggles of ebony hue.

As he mostly sees double

To wear them why trouble?

I can’t see the Joe Miller. Can you?

In mourning for Sallust, Mulligan says. Whose mother
is beastly dead.
Myles Crawford crammed the sheets into a sidepocket.
—That’ll be all right, he said. I’ll read the rest after.
That’ll be all right.
Lenehan extended his hands in protest.
—But my riddle! he said. What opera is like a railway-
line?
—Opera? Mr O’Madden Burke’s sphinx face reriddled.
Lenehan announced gladly:
—The Rose of Castile. See the wheeze? Rows of cast steel.
Gee!