Bentley's Miscellany, Volume II. Various

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      Miss S. (flies into his arms.) – My own loved Guardsman, and my fancy beau.

      Oh, Terence Connor! (Kissing him.)

      Capt. (embracing her.) – Sweet Juliana, O!

      Miss S.– Why did you dally, dearest; tell me all?

      Were you on guard?

      Capt. Yes, sweetest, at Whitehall.

      Miss S.– Ah, you false man, – (taps his cheek playfully,) – I'll watch you close.

      Capt. What's that?

      Miss S.– Nothing, dear Terence, but the landlord's cat.

      Capt.– A cough! – another! Do cats cough so, my fair?

      Ha! her cheeks redden! Tell me who is there?

      That guilty look! Zounds! If my fears be true,

      He'll curse the hour he dared to visit you!

      Capt.– A man! – my eyes! another! – and another!

      A fourth one still!

      Snags. I'm dead with fright!

      Pop. I smother!

      Mags. Oh, Lord! I'm dead already!

      Capt.– Prepare for death!

      Snags and Pop. Indeed, sir, we an't ready.

      Mr. C.– Probably, sir, affection for my wife

      Might plead my pardon, and reprieve my life.

      Mrs. C.– Why, what's all this? What do my eyes discover?

      An errant husband, and a truant lover!

      (Aside to Mr. C.) – Was it for this I gave my faith to you?

      (Aside to Capt. C.) – Was it for this I drove you out to Kew,

      Paid cab and lunch, brown stout, and ruin blue?

      Pieman.– That 'ere flash madam hit me in the withers.

      All-hot (pointing to Mr. Clipclose).– And that cove knock'd my kitchen-range to shivers!

      Mr. C. (to Policeman.) – Let me explain, sir.

      Miss S. Pray, sir, let me speak.

      Policeman.– Silence! and keep your gammon for the beak.

      Is it the gas-pipe?

      Capt. C. No, dash my wig! a ghost!

      Roundelay —Ghost and Company.

      ("Good morrow to you, Madam Joan.")

      All in the family way,

      Whack-fal-li, fal-la-di-day!

      Are you met here to take tea?

      Whack-fal-li, &c.

      Or is it love-making you're come?

      Tol-de-re-lol, &c.

      Or to keep clear away from a bum?

      Whack-fal-li, &c.

      Oh, no, sir! we're going to jail,

      Whack-fal-li, &c.

      Unless, Mister Ghost, you'll go bail,

      Whack-fal-li, &c.

      A spectre, Miss S. will not do,

      Whack-fal-li, &c.

      Where the blazes! should we look for you?

      Whack-fal-li, &c.

      Ah, Terry, you traitor, you're there!

      Whack-fal-li, &c.

      As usual, deceiving the fair!

      Whack-fal-li, &c.

      You'll pay dear enough for your pranks!

      Whack-fal-li, &c.

      You're broke, and reduced to the ranks!

      Whack-fal-li, &c.

      By St. Patrick, I'm done for, at last!

      From a captain come down to a private.

      Terry Connor, your glory is past;

      A very nice pass to arrive at!

      I say, you old rum-looking swell,

      I would deem it a favour, and civil,

      In spite of your sulphur'ous smell,

      To take me down stairs to the devil,

      And get me a troop in his guards.

       Ghost (to the Capt.) – Shut your potato-trap! we still refuse —

      The corps's so moral – Life-Guardsmen and Blues.

      4th Wife.– Cheer up, my Connor; 'twas in jest I spoke,

      When I affirm'd my best beloved was broke.

      Ghost (addressing the company).– Ladies and Gemmen, give the ghost a hearance,

      As this, his first, must be his last appearance.

      (To Mr. and Mrs. Clipclose) – Bent upon wedlock, and an heir, to vex ye,

      If toasted cheese had not brought apoplexy,

      I died asleep, and left my hard-won riches;

      Search the left pocket of my dark drab breeches;

      Open the safe, and there you'll find my will;

      Deal for cash only and stick to Ludgate-hill;

      Watch the apprentices, and lock the till;

      And СКАЧАТЬ