_(Major Tweedy and the Citizen exhibit to each other medals,
decorations, trophies of war, wounds. Both salute with fierce
hostility.)_
PRIVATE COMPTON: Go it, Harry. Do him one in the eye. He’s a proboer.
STEPHEN: Did I? When?
BLOOM: _(To the redcoats.)_ We fought for you in South Africa, Irish
missile troops. Isn’t that history? Royal Dublin Fusiliers. Honoured by
our monarch.
THE NAVVY: _(Staggering past.)_ O, yes! O God, yes! O, make the kwawr a
krowawr! O! Bo!
_(Casqued halberdiers in armour thrust forward a pentice of gutted
spearpoints. Major Tweedy, moustached like Turko the terrible, in
bearskin cap with hackleplume and accoutrements, with epaulettes, gilt
chevrons and sabretaches, his breast bright with medals, toes the line.
He gives the pilgrim warrior’s sign of the knights templars.)_
MAJOR TWEEDY: _(Growls gruffly.)_ Rorke’s Drift! Up, guards, and at
them! Mahar shalal hashbaz.
PRIVATE CARR: I’ll do him in.
PRIVATE COMPTON: _(Waves the crowd back.)_ Fair play, here. Make a
bleeding butcher’s shop of the bugger.
_(Massed bands blare_ Garryowen _and_ God save the King.)
CISSY CAFFREY: They’re going to fight. For me!
CUNTY KATE: The brave and the fair.
BIDDY THE CLAP: Methinks yon sable knight will joust it with the best.
CUNTY KATE: _(Blushing deeply.)_ Nay, madam. The gules doublet and
merry saint George for me!