A hodge-podge of wordplay. Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake (1939), links picnics with lust.
You won’t need be lonesome, Lizzy my love, when your beau gets his glut of cold meat and hot soldiering
or wake in winter, window machree, but snore sung in my old Balbriggan surtout.
Wisha, won’t you agree now to take me from the middle, say, of next week on, for the balance of my days, for nothing (what?) as your own nursetender?
A power of highsteppers died game right enough — but who, acushla, ‘ll beg coppers for you?
I tossed that one long before anyone.
It was of a wet good Friday too she was ironing and, as I’m given now to understand, she was always mad gone on me.
Grand goosegreasing we had entirely with an allnight eiderdown bed picnic to follow.
By the cross of Cong, says she, rising up Saturday in the twilight from under me, Mick,
Nick the Maggot or whatever your name is, you’re the mose likable lad that’s come my
ways yet from the barony of Bohermore
See James Joyce. Finnegan’s Wake, New York: Viking, Press, 1939 http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/j/joyce/james/j8f/complete.html