I don't think you can even begin to comprehed Joyce unles you understand him as the consumate rebel. He rebelled against every orthodoxy that dominated his childhood and boyhood. I think that's why he seemed to idolize Parnell. He no doubt saw in him parts of the rebel he himself became, The poem, my absolute favorite bit of Joyceanna, was a shot at his published (Maunsel and Company)who printed and then burned "The Dubliners." I suspect Maunsel simply saw a way to make money off a book that wasn't yet selling very well. Whether by insurancce fraud or being bought off I don't know. This poem was written in a single, and, IMHO,is a tour de force through the recent Irish history of his time. The line-breaks and "paragraphs" are not Joyce's. I put them in as performance markers for myself when I read this poem. It's always well received.

GAS FROM A BURNER
(James Joyce)

Ladies and gents, you are here assembled
        To hear why earth and heaven trembled
Because of the black and sinister arts
        Of an Irish writer in foreign parts.

He sent me a book ten years ago:
        I read it a hundred times or so,
Backwards and forwards, down and up,
Through both ends of a telescope.

I printed it all to the very last word
        But by the mercy of the Lord
The darkness of my mind was rent
        And I saw the writer's foul intent.

But I owe a duty to Ireland:
        I hold her honor in my hand,
This lovely land that always sent
        Her writers and artists to banishment

And in a spirit of Irish fun
        Betrayed her own leaders, one by one.
'Twas Irish humor, wet and dry,
        Flung quicklime into Parnell's eye;

'Tis Irish brains that save from doom
        The leakey barge of the Bishop of Rome
For everyone knows the Pope can't belch
        Without the consent of Billy Walsh.





O Ireland my first and only love
        Where Christ and Caesar are hand and glove !
O lovely land where the shamrock grows !
        (Allow me, ladies, to blow my nose)

To show you for strictures I don't care a button
        I printed the poems of Mountainy Mutton
And a play he wrote (you've read it, I'm sure)
        Where they talk of "bastard", "bugger", and" whore,"

And a play on the word and holy Paul
        And some woman's legs that I can't recall,
Written by Moore, a genuine gent
        That lives on his property's ten per cent:

I printed mystical books in dozens:
        I printed the table Book of Cousins
Though (asking your pardon) as for the verse
        'Twould give you a heartburn on your arse:

I printed folklore from North and South
        By Gregory of the Golden Mouth:
I printed poets, sad, silly and solemn:
        I printed Patrick What-do-you-colm:

I printed the great John Milicent Synge
        Who soars above on an angel's wing
In the playboy shift that he pinched as swag
        From Maunsel's manager's travelling bag.

But I draw the line at that bloody fellow
        That was over here dressed in Austrian yellow,
Spouting Italian by the hour
        To O'Leary Curtis and John Wise Power

And writing of Dublin, dirty and dear,
        In a manner no blackamoor printer could bear.
Shite and onions ! Do you think I'll print
        The name of the Wellington Monument,

Sydney Parade and Sandymount tram,
        Downe's cakeshop and William's jam ?
I'm damned if I do - damned to blazes !
        Talk about Irish Names of Places !

It's a wonder to me, upon my soul,
        He forgot to mention Curley's Hole.
No, ladies, my press shall have no share in
        So gross a libel on Stepmother Erin.

I pity the poor - that's why I took
        A red-headed Scotchman to keep my book.
Poor sister Scotland ! Her doom is fell;
        She cannot find any more Stuarts to sell.

My conscience is fine as Chinese silk:
        My heart is as soft as buttermilk.
Colm can tell you I made a rebate
        Of one hundred pounds on the estimate
I gave him for his Irish Review.

        I love my country - by herrings I do !
I wish you could see what tears I weep
        When I think of the emigrant train and ship.
That's why I publish far and wide
        My quite illegible railway guide.



In the porch of my printing institute
        The poor and deserving prostitute
Plays every night at catch-as-catch-can
        With her tight-breeched British artilleryman
And the foreigner learns the gift of gab
        From the drunken draggletail Dublin drab.

Who was it said: Resist not evil ?
        I'll burn that book, so help me devil.
I'll sing a psalm as I watch it burn
        And the ashes I'll keep in a one-handled urn.

I'll pennance do with farts and groans
        Kneeling upon my marrow bones.
This very next lent I will unbare
        My penitent buttocks to the air
And sobbing beside my printing press
        My awful sin I will confess.

My Irish foreman from Bannockburn
        Shall dip his right hand in the urn
And sign crisscross with reverent thumb
        Memento homo upon my bum.