Anne Hathaway
Anne Hathaway, she was to blame
Mild fire of wine kindled his veins
Wine soaked and softened he nearly slept
He knows now, better let him forget
Come thou dear one, come thou lost one
He heard her voice, come pussy come
Year after year, always the same
Anne Hathaway, she was to blame
Love and war, God be with old times
Hot fresh blood, they prescribe for decline
Love and war, always the same
Anne Hathaway, she was to blame
I'm a tree so blind, have birds no smell
Bullock befriending bard, I cannot tell
Unsteady symbols, the hue of shame
Anne Hathaway, she was to blame
Love and war, God be with old times
Hot fresh blood, they prescribe for decline
Love and war, always the same
Anne Hathaway, she was to blame
by James Joyce, from Ulysses