Joseph Nugent
Ph.D., University of California, Berkeley
An Assistant Professor of English Literature at Boston College, I teach 19th and 20th century Anglo-Irish literature, the Victorian novel, and Irish language. My research interests revolve around James Joyce (esp. Finnegans Wake), masculinity studies, Irish religious discourse, and nationalism. I’ve articles published or forthcoming on Joyce, Irish homiletics, and on emulation and clerical training. I’m currently writing amanuscript on representations of the Irish priesthood around the turn of the twentieth century. But recently, my interests have turned to the work of social psychologists and olfactory scientists on the burgeoning field of sensory perception. So, I’m paying some attention to the role of smells in literature.
Originally from Ireland, my hometown, Mullingar, is of little importance except that James Joyce spent a couple of very important summers (1900 and 1901) there, while he was a university student. The town features in Ulysses and in Stephen Hero, and make odd appearances in the Wake.
There is, however, quite a wonderful song about the town, “Lines in Praise of the Famous City of Mullingar.” It’s a piece of tongue-in-cheek nonsense dating from the 19th century, but it’s got some wonderful rhymes. Given a sufficiency of Guinness, I’ve been known to sing it myself. I’ll add the words somewhere on site.
Lines in Praise of the Famous City of Mullingar
You may strain your muscles
To brag of Brussels,
Of London, Paris or Timbuctoo
Constantinople
Or Sebastople,
Vienna, Naples or Tongtaboo
Of Copenhagen
Madrid, Kilbeggan
Or the capital of the Russian Czar
But they’re all inferior to
The vast superior
And lovely city of Mullingar
That fair metropolis
So great and populous
Adorns the region of sweet Westmeath
That fertile county
Which nature’s bounty
Has richly gifted with bog and heath
Them scenes so charming
Where snipes a-swarming
Attract the sportsman that come from far
And whoever wishes
May catch fine fishes
In deep Loch Owel near Mullingar
I could stray forever
By Brusna’s river
And watch its waters in their sparkling fall
And the ganders swimmin’
And lightly skimmin’
O’er the crystal bosom of the Royal canal
Or on Thursday wander
‘Mid pigs so tender
And geese and turkeys on many a car
Exchangin’ pleasantry
With the fine bold peasantry
That throng the market at Mullingar
Ye nine, inspire me
With rapture fire me
To sing the buildings both old and new
The majestic courthouse
The spacious workhouse
The church and steeple which adorn the view
There’s a barrack airy
For the military (militaery)
Where the brave repose from the toils of war
Five schools, a nunnery
And a thrivin’ tannery
In the lovely city of Mullingar
The railway station
With admiration
I next must mention in terms of praise
Where trains a-rollin’
And engines howlin’
Strike each beholder with wild amaze
And then there’s main street
That broad an clean (clane) street
With its rows of gas lamps that shine afar
I could spake a lecture on the architecture
Of the lovely city of Mullingar
The men of genius
Contemporaneous
Approach spontaneous this favoured spot
And good society
And great variety
Of entertainment is still their lot
The neighbouring quality
For hospitality
And conviviality unequalled are
And from December
Until November
There’s still divarsion in Mullingar
Now, in conclusion
I make allusion
To the beauteous females that here abound
Celestial creatures
With lovely features
And tapered ankles that skim the ground
But this suspends me
The theme transcends me
My muse’s powers are too weak by far
It would take Catullus
Or likewise Tibullus
To sing the praises of Mullingar