The
WOODMAN;
A Comic Opera BY MR . BATE DUDLEY.
THE WOODMAN, A
COMIC OPERA,
IN THREE ACTS; AS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, COVENT-GARDEN, WITH UNIVERSAL APPLAUSE.
BY MR. BATE DUDLEY.
London: PRINTED BY T. RICKABY, FOR T CADELL, IN THE STRAND. 1791.
DEDICATION.
TO BAMBER GASCOYNE, ESQ.
RECEIVER GENERAL OF HIS MAJESTY's CUSTOMS, &c.
DEAR SIR,
THE following OPERA is inscribed to you, from two motives—Gratitude, and Selfinterest. My best feelings are indulged by this acknowledgment of the many obligations I owe to you—and my vanity, I confess, will derive no inconsiderable gratification, from the world being informed, that you have long classed me in the respectable list of your private friends.
The scenes of
dramatic fiction,
are not perhaps the best calculated, to display the sincerity of personal regard;—but my attachment is not the novelty of a day, and depends not therefore on the form of a public offering.
The WOODMAN indeed, has, on this occasion, some sylvan pretensions of his own: doing, "Suit, and Service," in that antient
HAINAULT FOREST, in ESSEX.
FOREST, over which you exercise a joint jurisdiction, he may be allowed, at least, a feudal claim to your protection: I should pay but an ill compliment to your classical taste, which I admire, to suppose he will be the less welcome, because he approaches you in the unaffected garb of
Pastoral Simplicity.
I am, Dear Sir, With great Regard, Very faithfully your's, H. B. DUDLEY.
BRADWELL LODGE,
April
30
th.
1791.
The following Statement, proceded the Book of
SONGS,
in the first Night's Representation; explanatory of the Writer's Views.
ADVERTISEMENT.
THAT the OPERA of THE WOODMAN has been hastily put together, its defects will but too plainly point out. To excite the admired talents of a MUSICAL FRIEND, superseded every other consideration in this undertaking. In an endeavour to sketch his scenes from Nature, if the Writer has failed, the demerit must be entirely his own. In this case, he can only lament, that the genius of a great LYRIC COMPOSER should have been misguided by his inability—but the pride of having first introduced the modest merit of Mr. SHIELD to the Theatrical World, he must still retain!
He was advised, to shelter himself under an assumed name, from some friendly apprehensions on the score of party prejudice; but this he thought unnecessary.—The decision of an English Audience, is seldom regulated by unworthy motives; and personal resentment is so invariably disclaimed by candid Criticism, that to deprecate it on the present occasion, would degrade, even the humility of a DRAMATIC AUTHOR!
To the friendly and liberal attention of
Mr. HARRIS,
and the zealous exertions of all the
PERFORMERS,
the
AUTHOR
feels himself much indebted.
From a combination of the most effective powers of the Theatre, the
WOODMAN
derived, that correct, and animated Performance, which secured to the Piece so flattering a reception.
*⁎*
The words adapted to two or three old
AIRS,
unavoidably partake of a bro
, irregular measure.
Dramatis Personae.
MEN.
SIR WALTER WARING
Mr. QUICK.
WILFORD
Mr. INCLEDON.
CAPT. O'DONNEL
Mr. JOHNSTONE.
MEDLEY
Mr. BLANCHARD.
BOB, the Miller,
Mr. WILLIAMSON.
FAIRLOP, the Woodman
Mr. BANNISTER.
FILGERT, the Gardener
Mr. CROSS.
WOMEN.
EMILY
Miss DALL.
DOLLY
Mrs. MARTYR.
MISS DI CLACKIT
Mrs. WEBB.
POLLY
Miss HUNTLEY.
BRIDGET
Mrs. CROSS.
KITTY MAPLE
Miss STUART.
Female Archers—Woodmen, &c. &c.
The Lines distinguished by inverted Commas, are omitted in the Representation.
THE WOODMAN, A COMIC OPERA.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
A Perspective Garden.
MEDLEY
and
FILBERT.
WHAT slaves are we men in office!—Don't you wonder, Filbert, how I get through all my business?
Oh! it's your
larning
does it, Mr. Medley, that's certain.
Why, to be sure, Filbert, your men of parts are the fellows after all;—but come, did you deliver the dresses, bows and arrows, last night, to the lasses who are to shoot for the heifer and ribbands, according to the forest charter.
Yes.
And did you tell 'em to meet me in good time, this afternoon, in the gladeway, near the old Oak?
To be sure I did—and gave 'em a kiss all round into the bargain, that they might not forget it.
That was done like a man, Filbert!—Now take these to Goodman Fairlop's, the Woodman,—
(giving him bows and arrows, &c.)
—and tell him I shall be down with them before the girls have untied their night-caps.
I will.—
(Laughing.)
—Efecks, Master Medley, you think, mayhap, I don't know
who
has a fancy to
who,
in that corner of the forest?
Come, jog away—jog away—I've no time now to crack jokes with you, Master
Filbert.
—
[Exit Filbert.
—Like other great men—I, Matt Medley, am obliged, for the good of the state, to hold many offices.—I am Deputy Ranger of the Purlieu!—Keeper of the waifs and strays!—Fac-totum to his Worship Sir Walter!—and Mender of Morals in the absence of our Vicar!—I think I've employment enough cut out for the present day.—Let me see—I'm to find out who this little stranger is at the Woodside, which I can't learn for my life from that hussey Dolly.—I'm to make love to her for my brother Bob, if she's good for any thing—and if not, I must prevent Sir Walter making himself the hamlet's talk about her.—I've to keep peace through the day—
if I can
—between Sir Walter and his rantipole cousin Dinah—then to act as umpire at the archery—and at night—receive a smile from Dolly as a recompence for all my toils.
AIR I.
In the World's crooked path where I've been,
There to share of life's gloom my poor part,
The bright sun-shine that soften'd the scene
Was—
a smile from the girl of my heart!
Not a swain, when the lark quits her nest,
But to labour with glee will depart,
If at eve he expects to be blest
With—
a smile from the girl of his heart!
Come then crosses, and cares as they may,
Let my mind still this maxim impart,
That the comfort of man's fleeting day
Is—
a smile from the girl of his heart!
Medley! why, Matt Medley! where are you, I say?
Yes, yes, just as I thought, the old Buck's noddle can't rest for dreaming of this little fawn at the Woodside!
Enter
SIR WALTER.
Good morrow, Medley!—how are you, Matt? always chanting with the first cock—eh, you rogue?
I love to be cheerful, and stirring betimes—but how comes your Worship abroad so soon?
I could not sleep, Matt, for the rheumatism—and so forth.
And I doubt whether your disorder will let you rest, now you're up—
and so forth.
[Aside.
But did you think of what I was saying to you last night, Matt?
I'm going about it the first thing this morning! I have a good excuse for the enquiry, as my brother's desperately in love with this pretty stranger.
What, Bob of the mill?—A great fool! why it will be the ruin of the poor fellow?—But how do you know it?—have you evidence of the fact?
He told me himself—so I'm going to look into it.
Ay do—that's quite right: a silly numpskull!—but you know, Matt, there can be no harm just in my having a little sort of a curiosity about her—and so forth?
Oh! none at all, sir.—Nor of my satisfying that curiosity according to my mind—
and so forth.
[Aside.
Well then go—that's a good lad.
I will, your Worship.
That's right—now go about it directly Matt, while I finish my morning's walk.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A Woodside, discovering
FAIRLOP
's Cottage Farm soon after Sun-rise:—
EMILY
and
DOLLY,
sitting at a breakfast Table near the Door.
FAIRLOP
and
POLLY
entering to them from the Porch.
AIR II.—
QUARTETTO.
FOR all thy boons below,
Oh, ruddy HEALTH! to thee
Thus ever, ever flow
The grateful strains of Industry!
CHORUS of Woodmen.
FROM Labour's sons around
The woodlands catch the sound;
While songsters blithe on ev'ry spray,
Attune their voices to our roundelay!
[Exit Polly.
So much for the first portion of the day!—and now, my girls, let us partake of the homely meal that Providence sets before us.
No, father—that Providence bestows, and I set before you!
You are a good girl, Doll—but tho' his Worship's clerk, Mr. Medley, does flatter your comeliness—mind, child, and never think of setting yourself before Providence.
There, sir—there's your breakfast ready for you—I had the pleasure of toasting your brown bread—
And I of rubbing the nutmeg over it.
Honest husbands to you both, for your kindness.—But now, Miss Emily, for the rest of your story, which you promised us a month ago.—Your aunt I remember well—and a fine straight woman she was in my younger days.
Ay, father—you'll pity poor Emily indeed, when you hear it;—she told it me last night; and I did nothing but sob and cry till day-light.
I believe I told you, that my widow'd mother was a tenant to old Mr. Wilford, in a small farm near the park—
Yes, child, you did.
At her decease I was taken, when very young, to be a companion to their noice, Miss Wilford, and shared with her, while she lived, an education—far beyond what my rank in life could entitle me to.
I don't know that.
Well—and so.—
Being the constant observer of her brother's increasing worth, my esteem for him insensibly grew with it; till at length I listen'd, too fondly, to his professions of regard—which, probably, I ought to have discouraged!
I don't know how that should have been: but that's all over, child.
Lord! father, does not love always beget love, as I've heard my poor dear mother tell you a hundred, and a hundred times to that?
And so thou hast, Dolly—but go on my dear.
In short, a mutual vow of inviolable affection was the consequence of this attachment.
Well, and that was right.
His Uncle, one moonlight evening—surprised us walking together on the terrace!—The next morning—to the astonishment of every one, he hurried my Wilford off to the continent, without his being able to bid me a last adieu!—and, by the most cruel vow, declared, he would disinherit him if ever he beheld me more!
Barbarous creature!
Hold your tongue a little—pray, Dolly!
He enclosed me, a bill of a hundred pounds, the legacy bequeathed me by his Lady's will—and inform'd me, that I had his permission to remain at Wilford Lodge till I could otherwise accommodate myself—which I did the same day at my aunt's, in the adjoining parish.
I honor your spirit!
After three years absence on his travels—during which time he has written to me in terms of unaltered affection, I learnt, that Wilford was on his return to England.—To prevent, therefore, the fatal effects to him of even a supposed renewal of our attachment—I resolved—unknown to any one, to retire in search of an asylum, which, from my aunt's description of you, I flattered myself I might find—and, Heaven knows, have sound under your generous protection!
A'n't this very cruel, and heart-breaking, father?
It is a little against the grain, to be sure—but let's make the best we can of it.
And so the dear, constant-hearted man is soon expected back again?
He is indeed, Dolly—
AIR III.
ZEPHYR, come, thou playful minion,
Greet with whispers soft mine ear!
Hence! each breeze of ruder pinion,
Tell me I have nought to fear!
Gently, ZEPHYR, wing him over,
Tho' I ne'er behold him more;
With the breath of some young lover,
Waft him to his native shore!
Well, child—the best way now, is to reconcile yourself to a more humble lot:—you will not fare so well, it's true—but you may be as safe under my lowly roof, as in the proudest dwelling!
Oh, the feelings of my heart!—
I'm glad on't—they'll spare you the trouble of saying, what I neither deserve, nor desire to hear.—But come, girls, I'll now take a step into the Hop-ground, while you finish dressing the garland pole; and in the evening we'll all dance round it, and forget our sorrows.
AIR IV.
ON Freedom's happy land
My task of duty done,
With
Mirth
's light-hearted band
Why not the lowly
Woodman
one?
Tho' Fortune's smile our groves forsake,
Mirth may be left behind;
For wealth can neither give, nor take
This treasure of the mind!
On Freedom's happy land,
&c.
Come, Cheerfulness, with blithsome gait,
Trip by the peasant's side;
While Care—in cold, and sullen state,
Sits on the brow of pride.
On Freedom's happy land,
&c.
[Exit.
SCENE III.
A Woodland View near
FAIRLOP
's Cottage.
EMILY
and
DOLLY,
decorating a Hop-Pole with Ribbands.
AIR.—DUET.
"The blushing pink—the spotless white,
"Will always charm the purer sight,
"Disdaining gaudy pride:
"How can such colours fail to please,
"When, oh! with silken bands like these,
"True Lover's knots are ty'd?"
I've another bit of pink upon my best cap, that will do for the top to a T.—I'll run and fetch it.
[Exit.
Ah, my Wilford!—had fate but fashioned thee for these humble scenes of life, I might then perhaps have aspired to thy love without presumption.
Re-enter
DOLLY.
Here it is!—but hold—this was given me at our last fair by Medley—and I should not like to part with it, tho' he is an audacious creature!—But I'll pin it so high, that nobody can reach it.—There!—
Well, this must be the smartest Pole in the parish, to be sure!
And bless me, what kissing there'll be under it!
AIR V.
THERE's a something in kissing—I cannot tell why,
Makes my heart in a tumult jump more than breast high:
For nine times in ten,
So teazing,
And pleasing,
We find those rude creatures—the dear kissing men,
That we wish it repeated again, and again!
Though a kiss stop my breath, oh! how little care I,
Since a woman at some time or other must die!
For nine times in ten,
So teazing,
And pleasing,
We find those rude creatures—the dear kissing men,
That we wish it repeated again, and again!
POLLY
peeps at the latter part of this Air, and entering archly, sings,
"
We wish it repeated again, and again!
Heighday, little Miss Nimble-tongue!—who ask'd for your piping?
Dear sister! I thought I should always say, and do, every thing after you.
Indeed!—but come, Miss—here, take your basket—
(giving her one)
—and pack off to school.—Marry come up—I think we can find you something else to mind, or I wonder!
Oh! she'll be a good girl, Dolly, I'll answer for her.
And so she ought—mind and finish your task in your sampler before you come home, Miss.
Well—so I will, if you don't s
ub a-body.
[Exit Emily and Dolly.
[
Sings
]—"
There's a something in kissing—I cannot tell why!
"
[Exit Polly.
SCENE IV.
MEDLEY
coming to the Woodman's.
So!—so!—why these girls are not up yet!—by their lying in bed thus—they fancy themselves married already!
Enter
BOB.
Good morrow, brother Matt.
Good morrow again, Bob—if it's not too late—well, do you continue in the same mind?
Yes—I love her dearly.
Come, then, I'll try what's to be done for you.
Don't expect me to talk much at first—for when I see her, I know I shall be as dumb as my breast-wheel in a hard frost.
Leave it to me, and never you mind it—Halloo! halloo!—why house! are you all dead, or fast asleep?
Enter
EMILY
and
DOLLY,
from the Woodside-part.
As I hope to live, there's my spark, and his brother Bob the miller, your intended lover.
How can you be so absurd, Dolly?
Pray, Gentlemen—or rather middling kind of men—what may be your business here so early this morning?
"Now mind, brother—for I can't speak a word.
[To Medley.
"First of all, Dolly—I came to enquire, whether you have received the bows and arrows, and how you like your dresses?
"Why, so-so!
"Then, Mrs. So-So—the rest of my business happens not to be with you—but with your pretty companion there.
[Turning to Emily.
"With me, sir?
"Oh! I see he's in his airs this morning—but I'll match him.
[Turning off with Emily.
"Faith, Bob, she's a nice grist!
"A pure white sample, an't she brother?"
Come, we'll to the point at once.—May I crave your name, fair one?
If it can be of any service to you to know it—'tis Emily.
Emily!—a pretty name enough for the top of a love letter—an't it, Bob?
I have no patience at his impudence, and neglect of me!
[Aside.
Why then, Miss Emily—the long and short of the matter is this:—my brother Bob here, as stirring a lad as any on the stream, has soused over head and ears, for you, into the mill-pond of affection—
Ridiculous!—
And thinks he shall prefer the pretty clapper of a wife—to the clack of his mill—
Impudent fellow!
And unless you take compassion on him, he is determined—what are you determined upon Bob?—
(aside)
—oh! he's resolved to knock down his hopper, and let the stream of life run waste with him the remainder of his days!
Lamentable indeed!
But that an't all?
Why, what the deuce would a reasonable woman have more?
I would save you and your brother the trouble of any further explanation, by assuring you, that I can never listen to his addresses, tho' I feel myself honor'd by his esteem!
Lord, Miss!—but his love—
And lord, sir!—don't be so meddling—it is enough for you to explain your own love!
Ah, Dolly!—how sew are there able to reveal to others this mystery of the mind!
AIR VI.—
GLEE.
What is LOVE?—An odd compound of simples most sweet,
Cull'd in life's spring by fancy—poor mortals to cheat;
A passion—no eloquence yet could improve,
So a sigh best expresses the passion of
Love!
[Exeunt Bob, and Emily severally.
Ha!—ha!—ha!—
What is it you giggle at so—Ma'am Dolly?
At you, and your foolish brother!
Oh! you do?
Yes, to be sure I do!—I can't help it for my life.
[Still laughs.
Then, since my brother is to be fobbed off by your companion in this pretty manner—I'll enquire a little into what's what? and who's who?—
Oh! pray do, Mr. Jack in office!
Yes, Ma'am—and know how Miss Proud-Airs came here?—whether she gets an honest livelihood?—and where's the place of her last legal settlement, Ma'am!
Pitiful spight!—But I can save you all this trouble. She's a thirteenth cousin by the side of my mother's halfbrother:—she came on a visit to us from foreign parts—has been better brought up than either you, or I, sir—and being, at this time, a little in adversity—why—my father has taken compassion upon her.—
Taken compassion upon her?
Yes, sir.
And, like an old fool—keeps her, I suppose?
Well—and suppose he does.
What?—after the fashion of the great folks above!
For my part, I don't see that such an action is a disgrace to any one, gentle, or simple.
You don't, upon your little wicked soul?
No.—And so, till you learn to behave yourself a little more like a man, I don't wish to see your spiteful face again.
[Exit Dolly.
Here's a pretty skit for you!—Have I been fifteen months at a Latin school?—two years hackney-writer to an attorney on Tower-hill—more than three years justice clerk to Sir Walter?—and to be outwitted, after all, "by this old stub-fox, and his young cubs?—Surely, Master Solomon—by your leave, there's now and then something new under the sun!—Old Fairlop, the Woodman, to take a flashy young hussey into keeping!—and his daughter,—in whom I placed every hope of future comfort—to encourage and laugh at it?—I'll go instantly to Sir Walter to prevent his falling into the trap that may be laid for him, however—and as to Dolly—"
AIR VII.
Say—what kind of revenge shall I take?
Shall I quit her—and see her no more?—
Tis a pity at once to forsake
What we've learnt a long while to adore!
If I tell her, for life we must part,
Ten to one if it gives her much pain!
Should the feel it—my own rebel heart
Will fly to her succour again!
[Exit.
SCENE V.
The Forest.
WILFORD,
and
CAPT. O'DONNEL.
Upon my conscience—but you true lovers are restless creatures!—We will only have been landed six days from the continent, and here are we again launched upon a more slippery element, in chace of your run-away mistress.
Ah! my friend O'Donnel—but what a treasure are we in pursuit of?
Well, but I wish you to be after giving me a more particular description of this same treasure—for which, I think, we will encounter a small number of difficulties.
Oh! she will repay all my anxieties!
Yes, faith! and what's to become of mine into the bargain?—but—I see your's is a dashing kind of love—which my friendship is eager enough to follow;—so order it upon any service you please, in search of your goddess.
My dear O'Donnel—I cannot thank you as you deserve. —My intelligence informs me, that Emily has, unaccountably, sought a retreat on the confines of this extensive forest.—We must, therefore, vigilantly explore it, taking different directions.—The guide told you where we should meet?
Not he indeed!—but what occasion for a rendezvous, when we are only going upon a foraging party!
He directed our servants to the Rein Deer, near the samed Oak:—there, at least, we may have tidings of each other's success.—Here let us part!
And see who starts the first doe on the forest.—But hark ye, Wilford!—how shall I be sure of her, so as not, by one of my consounded country mistakes, to take her for one of the little wild fawns of the chace?
If you have no eyes,—hear her but speak, and the mild melody of her accents will instantly convince you!
AIR VIII.
THE streamlet that flow'd round her cot,
All the charms of my
Emily
knew;
How oft has its course been forgot,
While it paus'd, her dear image to woo!
Believe me, the fond silver tide
Knew from whence it deriv'd the fair prize,
For silently swelling with pride—
It reflected her back to the skies!
[Exeunt severally.
SCENE VI.
Garden.
SIR WALTER,
and
MEDLEY.
Did you ever hear such a persecuting clapper as cousin Di's?
A little out of tune now and then, to be sure, your worship: but how did this storm break out?
Only, forsooth, because I good humour'dly laugh'd at her a little, for sashing herself off like a young girl, and telling her, she would make a better patroness of beefeaters, than female archers!—However, I'll see none of her prudish nonsense there—I'll ride ten miles first another way.
That's a pity; for it will be a fine sight.
What signifies your finery, and foolery, Matt?—if a man can't be comfortable, and take a quiet peep at a pretty girl—and so forth.—But when am I to see this little stray wood-nymph, Matt?
We can't too soon enquire into the merits of the case;—you'll find her no better than I told you.—We may take out orders of removal for her directly.
But not without positive evidence of the fact.
Let me beg your worship to be a little upon your guard—if Miss Di gets hold of it—she'll prattle about it merrily, I warrant you.
Yes, let her alone for that:—she's squeamish enough about other people—but as to her fantastical self—you'll find her always upon the ogle—and fancying every man she sees—in love with her—and so forth.
Suppose, some time or other, we were to humour this fancy of her's:—I don't think, your worship, it would be of any disservice to her!
My dear Matt, give me your hand!—prithee don't forget it!—Let me get her but once fairly on the hip, and then at all events I shall secure a good peace, with the enemy I never can conquer!
AIR IX.
SURELY woman's a powerful creature
In every stage of her life,
So arm'd at all points, by dame Nature,
As Maiden—Miss—Widow—or Wife!
In her bloom, ev'ry glance she shoots thro' you;
Ever after her la
um's well strung:—
And sure is that force to subdue you,
Which shifts from the eye—to the tongue!
[Exeunt.
SCENE VII.
The Forest.
CAPT. O'DONNEL
alone.
Upon my conscience—but this is likely to turn out a very clever expedition of mine!—A pretty account I'll be able to give poor Wilford! I marched out in search of his rivulet goddess—and the devil a human creature have I clapped my eyes on—except two huge bucks at a tilting-match under an oak!—But hold—what have we here? something nimbly scudding along—and this is her track!—
Enter
POLLY.
Oh la! what fine gentleman can this be?
[Aside.
How are you, my little innocent?
Very well, I thank you sir—
(curtesying)
—Pray, if I may be so bold, do you belong to our forest?
No, my little dear—I'm a roving buck from foreign parts! "what would you say to such a one for a husband?
"Oh! dear sir—you are very good—but I must not think of one 'till my eldest sister's married.
"No—who tells you that?
"My father—he says my waxen baby is a better play-thing than a husband, after all!
"But you don't believe him?
"I don't know, sir."
Where do you live?—and what may be your little name?
I live hard by, and my name is Polly Fairlop. I'm going to school—but I think I'm too old for that, however!
Indeed! and so you are, my dear!
AIR X.
WHEN first I slipp'd my leading strings—to please her little POLL,
My mother bought me at that fair, a pretty waxen
Doll;
Such sloe-black eyes, and cherry cheeks, the smiling dear possest,
How could I kiss it oft enough—or hug it to my breast?
No sooner I could prattle it, as forward Misses do,
Than how I long'd, and sigh'd to hear—my Dolly prattle too;
I curl'd her hair in ringlets neat, and dress'd her very gay,
And yet the sulky hussey not a syllable would say.
"Provok'd, that to my questions kind, no answer I could get,
"I shook the little hussey well—and whipp'd her in a pet:—
"My mother cry'd, Oh fie upon't—pray let your Doll alone,
"If e'er you wish to have a pretty baby of your own!"
My head on this I bridled up, and threw the play-thing by,
Altho' my sister snubb'd me for't—I know the reason why—
I fancy she would wish to keep the sweet-hearts all her own,
But that she shan't, depend upon't—when I'm a woman grown!
Bravo, my little warbler!—Tho' you are not tall enough, d'ye see—for a husband—I dare be bound you're cunning enough to tell me—whether you have amongst you, such a thing as a stray young lady, almost as handsome as your own sweet self?
As true as any thing this must be Miss Emily's sweetheart, that I've heard e'm talk, and cry so much about.—
(Aside.)
—A stray young lady?—what sort of one, sir?
Faith, an odd sort enough!—one that run away from her lover, for fear of being married to the man of her heart!
Oh, dear sir!—we have no such girls in our parts, I can assure you.—But here comes Mr. Bob, the Miller; perhaps he can inform you better—and so good bye, sir—for I ought to have been at school full half an hour ago!
[
Exit singing
—"
But that she shan't, depend upon't, when I'm a woman grown.
"
Well done, little Whirligig!—
Enter
BOB.
Good day to you, friend Bob.
Why, how the dickens did he know my name to be Bob?—
(Aside)
—The fame to you, sir.
[Bowing.
Faith, honest miller—you will confer an obligation upon me, by telling me whereabouts I am.
By your question, sir, I should guess you a bit of a stranger in this forest!
Indeed and you've hit it.—What's more, I came upon a strange bit of business—and, to tell you the honest truth, I need not walk much further to be tired, as well as hungry.
Lord love you! say no more—the traveller that has lost his way, shall never want a welcome at my mill, so long as I am able to grind a grist in it.—
Upon my conscience, but this honest fellow would soon make a man forget that he was out of his own country! What a fine thing is generosity! but what's it good for without a little gratitude?—
AIR XI.
OH! a French foederation,
Or courtier's oration,
Is all botheration,
To you Bob, and me!—
But what's more inviting,
My own heart delighting,
Faith better than fighting,
I'll tell you—d'ye see:
Why the snug little blessings, that most men desire,
The girl we can love—and the friend we admire!
But the sight above all, would you feel, my lad, here below,
Make the warm flame of gratitude tenderly overflow!
Tho' drones heap with pleasure,
Wealth's mischievous measure,
Faith that is no treasure
—To you Bob, and me!—
But what's more inviting,
&c.
But what might bring you into these out-of-the-way parts, if I may be so bold?—and how did you know my name was Bob?
Because I take you to be the son of your father—whose name I guess was Robert!
Efecks! that's no bad guess for a stranger, however!—But now, sir, for your business—
Faith, I came only to enquire after a stray dappled fawn, the owner of which would recover it at any pains, or price.
Oh! if that's all, set your heart at ease.—When you have refreshed yourself, I'll take you to my brother Matt, who is all in all with Sir Walter—and looks after the waifs and strays—so if any body can give you intelligence, he's the man.—Besides, there's to be fine doings this afternoon round here—so you may as well tarry, and see the pastimes of the place!
With all my soul!—Then, miller, I may peep at some of your Woodland nymphs—You have a few pretty ones skipping through these gladeways, I suppose?
Oh, a mort!—I'll shew you one among 'em shall make your mouth water—if you're ever so nice.
Why don't you pick out one amongst 'em for a wife, Bob?
Because I can't choose the sample I like.
A little shy—ch! Bob—of the antlers that flourish so thick around you?
No—no—I understand your joke, sir—but I've no fears of that kind, I promise you.
AIR XII.
MY heart is as honest, and brave as the best,
My body's as sound as a roach;
Tho' in gay fangled garments I never was drest,
Nor stuck up my nob in a coach:
If Fortune refuses to slow with my stream,
My sacks with her riches to fill,
Why surely 'tis Fortune alone that's to blame—
And not honest
Bob of the Mill!
My breast is as artless, and blithe as my lay,
From my cottage Content never flies,
She is sure to reward the fatigue of the day,
And I know how to value the prize:
Would the girl that I love, then, but give me her hand,
The world it may wag as it will;
I desy the first 'Squire, or Lord of the Land,
To dishonour plain
Bob of the Mill!
[Exeunt.
END OF ACT I.
ACT II.
SCENE VIII. EMILY
alone,
ting near the Cottage.
WHY should the report of a stranger's arrival on the forest, so much alarm me?—But may he not, by this time, have removed me as far from his memory, as his person?—Oh, no!—my Wilford is still the same—and, ill-fated as we are—my heart must dwell upon his fidelity with emotions of delight!—
AIR XIII.
SWEET inmate—SENSIBILITY!
How pure thy transports flow,
When even grief that springs from thee,
Is luxury in woe!
Without thee—where's the sigh of love,
Or blush by grace refin'd?
Where Friendship's sacred tear, to prove
The triumph of the mind?
RONDEAU
—
Sweet inmate,
&c.
[Emily continues reading.
Enter
SIR WALTER,
and
MEDLEY
with his Clerk's Bag.
Yes, yes—there she is upon the layer, as I expected!
Why, she warbles as innocently as a little Robin, Matt!
Oh! she can warble fast enough, if that's all—why, I dare say she'll turn out, upon examination, to be one of the little hurdy-gurdy girls that grind music about the streets of London!
But are you sure that my tenant, Fairlop—like a sly old fox—has pick'd up this pretty chicken for himself?—have you evidence of the fact?
To be sure, your Worship.—I've his daughter Dolly's own confession of the whole.
Well—I'll frighten her a little—but I cannot find in my conscience to hurt her—for every moment I perceive in her fresh beauties—and so forth.
Justice you know, sir, should be blind on these occasions.
What signifies that, Matt—when one can see such charms with half an eye!—But what can she be reading?
No good, I'll answer sor't—
Enter
DOLLY,
who seeing them, goes up to Emily.
As I live, here's Sir Walter!—We must make a curtesy to him.
[Emily rises, and modestly curtesies with Dolly.
They observe us—what a pretty rogue!—Hark ye—young—blooming damsel?
Which of us, and please your Worship?
Not you, Ma'am Forward-step—Here, Miss Scapegrace, walk this way.
[To Emily.
Don't, Matt.—I won't suffer you to be so harsh with her.—How came you, child, into the limits of this forest?
Good heav'n, how shall I support my self!
[Aside.
Why, pluck up a good spirit, and never mind it!
[Aside.
As this may turn out a nice point at sessions,—you should ask her,—where she was born?—and then, how she got her bread from her youth up?—that's the practice according to law!
But not exactly, Matt, according to my nature.
Indeed, first of all she should be sworn!
[Takes out a book.
Well, you may swear her—but I cannot be severe with her, without positive evidence of the fact!
Take off your glove—
What can this mean?
[To Dolly.
I'm sure I don't know—but I'll run and fetch my father.
[Exit.
Come—come, pretty one—the law requires you should be sworn.
Pray, sir, inform me—against what rule of society have I offended, that my humble character should be thus scrupulously enquired into?
You hear his Worship's commands, and that's sufficient.
I fear, sir, I know not the extent of so solemn an obligation!
No?—not an oath?—oh fie!
No, indeed, sir!—I intreat you would have the goodness to expound it to me.
Why, child—an oath—is—as one may say—a sacred—kind of a—taking of a—
Lord, sir! I'd be above explaining it to her! besides, here comes the old offender.
Enter
FAIRLOP.
Sirrah! how dare you!—how durst you!—You may retire, child, for the present.
[To Emily, who goes out.
Mercy on us!—what? and please your Worship!
We are come in the king's name, to demand, Master Fairlop—who, and what, that little coaxing Minx is?
Where she comes from?—and how you came by her?
And please you—all I know—your Honor shall know—
Now for it!
I
ound this poor Emily, a friendless creature, that the world had turn'd it back upon—and so, your Honor—I took her in—
And keep her in the face of the whole forest?
Why, your betters could have done no more?—an't you asham'd of yourself, Master Fairlop?
No, indeed, your Worship.
No?
Why should a poor man be asham'd of an act that the great are so proud of?
There's impudence for you!
Why, what will the world say of you?
So long, your Honor, as I can lie down with a quiet conscience, and rise to work under a good landlord, I heed not the world, and all its malice!
What! have you no regard for your own precious soul—and so forth?
When my poor trunk is sell'd, and the knots hewn off, I hope that some sound plank will be found here—
(laying his hand on his breast)
—as well as in finer sticks, with a smoother bark!
Why, don't you know whose tenant you are?
Dear heart! what a question?
Ay, answer him that—
To be sure, I am your Honor's tenant for the Hopground—the six acre croft—and the little woodland plot, where I was born—and I always strove hard not to be behind hand with my rent.
Then mark me—I'll let it all over your head to-morrow, if you don't discard that bewitching little baggage directly!
That's rather hard!—I've lived under your Worship three-and-fifty years!—but if it must be so—I'll be content.—I hope your Honor will get a better tenant!
What! you will be obstinate?
AIR XIV.
Good lack a day!
I would not for the land I hold,
Nor sacks brim-full of British gold
My trust betray:—
I'll do such deed for no man!
My maxim is, to do my best
To make each creature round me blest—
Much more—a helpless woman!
[Exit Fairlop.
What a sturdy old pollard this is, Matt?
Why, he'll corrupt the morals of the whole hamlet, his poor daughter Dolly and all!
But still, Medley—as to the little warbler herself—I do not find, yet, that we have evidence of the fact.
You know, your Worship,
Burn
says—
Pooh—pooh—what signifies what
Burn
says. I question if ever he met with so ticklish a case in the whole course of his life.
Enter
BOB,
who whispers
MEDLEY.
A strange gentleman!—glad to speak with me?
Here, Bob!—your brother Matt wants me to play the very deuce with the pretty little stranger at the woodside!
No sure, your Honor!
Your Worship, to be sure, must act as you please.
If I should commit her—you, as constable, Bob, must take the poor rogue to the house of correction.
I could not do it, your Honor, for the world!—Lord love her little heart, what has she done?
True, Robert!—that's what I want to know—at all events, I'll do nothing further in it, 'till I've re-examined her closely—and so forth!
I don't see, indeed, that there can be any harm in reconsidering the case.
No, none in the world—besides we should hear all the circumstances,
pro
and
con
—and so forth.
Ay do—your Honor—why, brother Matt, you wa'n't used to be a hard-hearted fellow—particularly to the poor girls.
No, God forbid I ever should be—'though this is a terrible example, Bob, for poor Dolly.
AIR XV.—
TRIO.
ALL
—Hard is the task, in one decree,
To blend
Medley
—Law!
Bob
—Love!
Sir Walter
—and Clemency!
ALL
—But where they equally prevail,
Let soft Compassion turn the scale!
[Exeunt.
SCENE IX.
DOLLY
entering the Garden.
Where can this cruel monster of mine be?—I did not intend to let him see that I lov'd him this half year—but if I don't—he may still play poor Emily some ill-natur'd trick.—Oh! here he is!—As her Ladyship, Miss Dina, kindly takes our part—I'll be upon the high ropes a little now, as well as he.
Enter
MEDLEY.
Well, Ma'am Dolly—what may your business be with me? for I'm rather in haste—
Lud—what a hurry some folks are in all of a sudden!—if you must know, sir—I sent for you to tell you, that you, and Sir Walter, are going to Old Nick as fast as you can gallop!
Indeed?—why then, perhaps, you would not dislike to take a canter along with us!
You may joke and jeer, Mr. Matt—but how can you find in your heart to collogue and plot against so innocent a creature?
I collogue?—I scorn your words!
"I should not wonder to find, when I get home, that she had drown'd herself in the brook at the back of our orchard!
"No—no—your young father is too tender hearted to suffer that.—
"Pray what do you mean, sir?
"Only that, instead of—drowning—you'll have a little nursing at home sooner than you look'd for.
["
Imitating the cry of a young child.
"
What, could you learn nothing better in London, Mr. Medley, than to slander a poor innocent girl, because she refused your brother Bob!—poor spite!
Why, if you come to that, didn't you tell me with your own mouth, that—
That what?—
That your father had taken—a fancy to her!—and did'n't he acknowledge it before his Worship himself?
Mercy upon us!—what is this wicked world come to—I?—
"Yes you did—told me flat and plain, that your father was fool enough to—to keep her.
"Keep her?—and so he does.
"Well—there now!
"Keeps her—poor man, like another daughter."
What?—don't she—now mind me, Dolly—are you sure—and certain—that—
What?
That—Emily does not—now and then—by chance—tie your father's—night-cap under his chin?
I wonder you a'n't asham'd of yourself, to look me in the face, after such a speech?
Faith, there may be some confounded mistake in this affair, after all!—
(Aside)
—why, Dolly, I only—
My father may be poor, sir—but ask the whole hamlet whether they ever found him dishonest!
No, Dolly!—but such a bewitching little rogue, you know—might have done you no good—that was all my fear, I can assure you now Dolly!
I thought you more of a man—she's as innocent—
Are you in earnest?
Earnest!
AIR XVI.
WHEN next you view the lily blow,
Or on wild heath the driven snow,
Toss'd rudely by the wind—
Tell me then, which you would compare
To her—who with a form that's fair,
Adds still a fairer mind!
Poor thing!—if that's the case—I have been sadly to blame—But I'm glad we stopped proceedings—no—the law must not take its course—to trample down innocence and humanity!
My dear Matt—do you say so?
To be sure I do—
Then heav'n will bless—and I will kiss you for it!
[Runs and kisses him.
Methinks, Dolly, I like your blessing the best, at present!—but did you give it me for yourself, or your friend?
Oh!—half one, and half t'other.
Then let me have a whole one on your own account—
(kisses her)
—and now, to make my happiness complete, give me your hand—and say, you're mine for ever!
Lord! you do tease a body so, Matt!
Come—come—
Well then, there—
(gives her hand)
—but you must get my father's consent.
To be sure—and then all's settled and done. I'll go and set Sir Walter right—and come to you both before we meet at the archery.—But who the deuce is this pretty water-wagtail—come, surely you may tell me now!
I can't, indeed—but you shall know all about it in good time.
AIR XVII.—
DUET.
Medley.
HAVING brought my suit to issue,
I may venture close to kiss you,
Lovely
Dolly!
—dearest
Doll!
Ever singing
toll-de-roll.
[Ad lib.
Dolly.
Aye! but when my charms are falling,
Shall I then still hear you calling
"Lovely
Dolly!
—dearest
Doll!
"Ever singing
toll-de-roll?
&c."
Medley.
You're a woman, made for ever?
Dolly.
You're a man, Sir, made for ever?
Both.
Hold your head up now, my dear,
Such a match for you, how clever!
You'll be envy'd far and near,
Ever singing
toll-de-roll,
&c.
[Ad lib.
[Exeunt.
SCENE X.
Garden.
Matt Medley promis'd to be with me an hour ago!—I want to know how he has manag'd it—that I may see her out of the reach of my prying cousin!—Hold—hold—suppose, after all—she should prove an honest, good girl!—what's to be done then?—Why, it will only be my care—as it is my duty, to protect her innocence.—But if she turns out the little wanton baggage Medley suspects—it will be charity to take her out of the way myself, and thus prevent old Fairlop's ruin!—Gads me! here she is, just at the nick.—I must be cautious with her at first, 'till I learn how her pulse beats—and so forth.
Enter
EMILY.
I hope you'll pardon me, sir, this bold intrusion—
Make no apology, my little dear! I am happy to see you—I'll do all I can to serve you, depend on't.
Regardless of my own fate—I come not, sir, to ask indulgence for myself—but most humbly to solicit you in behalf of an amiable man!
Ay! who can that be, child?
One, sir, who through life has enjoyed the cheering warmth of your benevolence—and is therefore less able, in old age, to bear up against the severity of your displeasure!
What, old Fairlop the woodman, you mean?
Yes, sir.
A pretty amiable fellow, to be sure, child! but come—they say you're very partial to him—now confess the truth, and I don't know what may be done.
Oh, sir! I do indeed regard him—beyond what even gratitude can express!
That's strange!—but what could you see, child, in such an old delving blockhead?
Every thing that can render man worthy of esteem. I fear, sir, that I have been the cause of his present distress:—restore him but to your protecting favour, and dispose of me, and my sufferings, in what manner you please!
Gad!—that's a significant hint I don't dislike, however.
[Aside.
AIR XVIII.
ANDANTE.
HEAR me! and comfort shall your steps attend;
Leave not the man of worth without a friend!
ALLEGRO.
Oh! the rapture of possessing
Power to dispense a blessing,
Or to raise a prostrate foe;
God-like he!—the deed concealing—
Who, with sympathetic feeling,
Softens but one sigh of woe!
Well, child—I'll consider of it—I won't detain you here any longer now—for fear of some inquisitive eye observing us;—so if you'll fix a time with my clerk, Medley, where I may see you again presently, I'll tell you a little more of my mind—and so forth—
(Emily courtesies, and retires.)
—"Dispose of me as you please?"—pretty foul!—how innocently complying!—Yes, yes—the case now is clear enough!—but what puzzles me is, how that liquorish-tooth'd old woodman could come by her.—Well, she's fair game now, Matt—or I wonder.—Let me see—how shall I dispose of her?—I'm too much enraptured to plan the scheme myself—Matt shall find out some sly corner, where the little rogue may live as happy as the day's long!—and then how snug shall I be with so pretty a companion, to read to me thro' a cold winter's night—and so forth!
AIR XIX.
WHAT mortal e'er saw such a creature?
How prettily turn'd ev'ry feature!
A mouth chastely simple!
A chin deck'd with dimple,
A cheek that discloses
Full-blown damask-roses,
With a lip like a ruby that's brought from afar,
And an eye—that out-twinkles the bright morning star!
[Exit.
SCENE XI.
The Forest.
DOLLY,
and
MEDLEY.
But where's your innocent companion—I long to attone for my offence—
She's gone up to Sir Walter's—for what purpose I know no more than you:—but here she returns.
Enter
EMILY,
dejectedly.
Cheer up your little heart! nobody will harm you!—I'm a whimsical fellow—and take the wrong end of a matter now and then, as well as other folks—but I think I would go as many miles on foot to serve one in distress, as any man upon the forest.
There!—didn't I tell you that Matt was honest in grain?
Oh, sir—but I dread the effects of Sir Walter's resentment!—
Never you sear—leave him to me.
He directed me to consult you about a further interview with him to-day.
What can his Worship want with her again?
Some business, I fancy, that I only can settle properly between them!—but come, I've news for you!—Have you heard of the strange gentleman just come on the forest?
We have, and wish mightily to see him; don't we, Emily?
We do, indeed—and mine is more than common curiosity.
My brother Bob first scrap'd acquaintance with him;—efaith! here they come together in search of me—you may now satisfy your curiosity, while I examine him.
Let us retire awhile—
(to Dolly)
—for I feel an agitation I cannot describe!
Enter
CAPT. O'DONNEL,
and
BOB.
This is the strange gentleman I told you of, brother!
Good day to you, sir.—
Sir, I'm your servant.
I am told you wanted to speak with me.
To be sure and I do.—The short and the long of the business is,—I have lost a little run-away damsel, and you, my dear, must be after finding her for me.
That's coming to the point, indeed!
Who knows but 'tis Miss Emily he's hunting for?
[Aside to Medley.
That we shall soon see.—
(Aside to Bob.)
—We have choice of waifs and strays on this forest.—Now here—
(pointing to
EMILY,
and
DOLLY,
who approach)
—here's a pair of pretty out-lying deer!—will either of these suit you?
There—now you may see—is that any thing like him?
[To Emily.
Oh, no!—
"That's her!—that's the beauty I told you of!
[To Captain O'Donnel.
"Upon my conscience, but you've a pretty choice, miller!—if I was hunting only for myself, I should seek no prettier game, than that little blue-eyed doe to the left—Oh, she's a sweet creature!"
Here, lasses, you must help this honest gentleman to find his sweet-heart.
I hope, sir, she's worth looking for!
For my part, I hope it won't turn out a wild-goose chace!
You all seem to think it a very good joke—but, as a stranger among you, let me hope for your good wishes at least—
You have mine, sir—from a sympathising heart.
And I wish that you may recover your wandering mistress, with all my soul!
AIR XX.—
GLEE.
The Author thought he might, with less presumption, slightly alter these original words of SHAKESPEAR to make them incidental to the Scene, than adapt others, which would probably have impaired the melody of this charming GLEE.
OH, Mistress Coy! where art thou roving?
Oh! stay and hear thy true-love coming,
That can sing both high, and low.
Trip no farther, pretty sweeting,
Journeys end in lovers' meeting,
Ev'ry wise man's son doth know.
Seek for love—but not hereafter;
Present mirth has present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure.
In delay there lies no plenty;
Flee not bliss, then, sweet, and twenty,
Youth's a season won't endure!
[Exit Emily, Dolly, and Bob.
Well, but this is an odd kind of story, Captain!—Come, as we are by ourselves, what sort of a damsel have you lost?
Now, faith—that's the very thing I came to learn of yourself.—But I'm sorry the dear blue-eyed girl has left us so soon, without leave.
What the devil!—don't you know your own mistress?
Palliluh!—but that's a good joke! Why, my dear, she's no mistress of mine!
Not your's?
Not at all—I'll tell you, as a secret!—it's my friend's!
Oh! your friend's is it?—
To be sure and it is!
What an opportunity for treating Miss Di with a specimen of my cousin Tipperary's courtship—unless her shape should marr the joke.—
(Aside.)
—Well but, Captain, let's know a few of the marks and colours—is she fair or brown, fat or lean?—
Why, that, upon my conscience, I forgot to ask; but, as near as I can guess, by my friend's taste, she must be a clever, plumpish kind of creature—just about neither one thing, nor t'other, d'ye see!
Come then, Captain, to keep you no longer in su
pense, your friend's lass is lodged not far off.
But are you in earnest?
To be sure I am. Now, what will you say if I take you to her directly?
Oh, but will you now, my dear fellow? Give me your hand—and after that, I'll give you an opportunity of doing myself a little favour, if you please?—
What's that, Captain—'Twas lucky that I told Miss Di this morning, she would be run away with—
[Aside.
Only to tell me where I may find that little blue-ey'd sawn—as a recompense for my own pains!
And why not hamper Sir Walter with him a little at the same time, and so rescue poor Emily—who may be the lass he's in search of, after all!
[Aside.
But what are you proseing so much about to yourself, little fellow?
Why, I'm thinking, that this may be a service of some danger, as well as honor.
So much the better.
You can talk big—and fight a little, upon occasion?
Is it a laugh, sir, you are after putting upon a soldier?—
Who me?—don't look so fierce, Captain!—not I upon my word!—
I'd have you learn, sir—that, when necessary, I can fight a great deal—and say nothing at all about it!—
Why, that's better still—then give me your hand, my dear friend—and now mind what I say to you.
Well, proceed—
You see that great house.
[Pointing to the Mansion.
Very well—
That's Sir Walter Waring's, where she's to be found.
The devil she is now!
Our forest air has not disagreed with her; you'll find her as plump as a partridge.—How Sir Walter came by her—that you must learn—but he has always been a devil of a fellow, from his youth, for fighting, and wenching!
Oh, be easy!—let me see whether he won't give her up to me?—and a fighting fellow too!—
You'll be able to speak to her now, as he is riding in the Park. Ask for the young lady—you can't mistake her—as she is the only one in the house.—
To be sure, and I won't beat up the old buck's quarters!—I perceive you've a little intrigue and frolic in this desart forest, as well as in Ireland's own self?
And why not?—
AIR XXI.
OH! Life's a gay forest, like merry Sherwood.
Tantarra, my boys!
Abounding with fish, flesh, and fowl, that is good;
These are your joys!
When the soft mountain-roe
Is skipping—soho!
Or tripping—teigho!
It will happen so!
This—this is the time, if it's well understood,
For the sport of that forest—dear merry Sherwood!
In such forests where game will for ever arise,
Tantara, my boys!
We may chace ev'ry light-footed pleasure that flies;
These are your joys!
Slyly then mark the doe,
That's skipping—soho!
Or tripping—teigho!
It will happen so!
For the well-flavour'd ven'son, dear me! is so good,
That is shot by an arrow in merry Sherwood.
SCENE XII.
A Room in Sir
WALTER WARING
's House
MISS DI CLACKIT.
I hope the archery will go off well—or my sweet cousin will never let me hear the last of it—never hear the last of it!—He has been endeavouring to turn it into ridicule all thro' the hamlet, this morning.—What woman of spirit, but myself, would endure the mortifying control that I do?—But I'll match him one day or other, when he least expects it.—Where the deuce can this girl be?—
(Rings the bell, and calls at the same time.)
—Bridget!—Bridget!
Enter
BRIDGET.
Did you call, your Ladyship?
Call?—to be sure I did call!—and have call'd for you this half hour!—Is my archery dress ready?—quite ready? for let me tell you—
Yes, your Ladyship; and I think your Ladyship will look more handsomer in it, than ever I see you in all my born days—
There!—there!—now you are going to crack the drum of my ear with your eternal talking.
AIR XXII.
YOUNG women should shun tittle-tattle;
Like sun-dials, never should prattle;
Just tell what they're ask'd, and be still!
But girls are so idle,
Their tongue they won't bridle,
So gallop it goes—like the clack of a mill!
We gentry you never hear rattle,
Like furies engag'd in a battle;
Of talking we soon have our fill:
But girls are so idle,
&c.
You may go about your business—may go about your business.—
(Exit Bridget.)
—what, the deuce, is there in talking—that people are so excessively fond of it—excessively fond of it? for my part!—
(Bridget reenters.)
—Well!—what's the matter?—what's the matter now? how often have I told you—
There's a gentleman in the Hall—wishes to speak with your Ladyship:—he says he came from Mr. Medley.—
Wants to speak with me, child?—wants to speak with me? What kind—what sort of a gentleman?—Is the girl dumb?—why dont you answer?—why don't you—
Oh! a comely, genteel person as you could wish to see, my Lady—but he talks a little like a foreigner.
C
me from Medley?—Then I find there was something in his hint to me this morning, about a new admirer.—
(Aside.)
—Shew him in immediately;—how, like a stupid statue, the girl stands!—
(Exit Bridget.)
—I like foreigners—and ev'ry thing that's foreign!—He must have heard of my situation—and, in the true spirit of foreign gallantry, wishes to release me from this hideous captivity?—there's no resisting one's fate!—but I fear he has caught me in a horrid dishabille—horrid dishabille—
[Arranging her dress in the glass.
Enter
CAPT. O'DONNEL.
Faith, and I believe, Arthur—you have blundered into a small mistake here!
[Aside.
Sir, you do me honour by this visit.—But you seem a little surprised—you need not be alarm'd, for Sir Walter—
Oh, Madam! never fear me—I'm not to be alarmed by all the Sir
sighting Walters
on the forest.
[Looking at her inquisitively.
Well, Bridget was quite right—he is a fine, bold man, indeed—and sure enough—
[Aside.
You've some agreeable female, I presume—as a companion about your person, Madam?
Not a soul, sir—I'm confined here, as you see, by my solitary self—
Then there can be no mistake!—This must be the little fellow's Partridge;—and a plump Partridge she is, sure enough!
[Aside.
Pray what may be the commands, sir, with which you have to honour me?—You know, sir, that—
To be sure, and are you not the dear creature, I have travelled so many weary miles to look after?—
That's a question—you, sir, can best resolve—it would ill become me to—
[Affecting bashfulness.
O! it's her own self I perceive—though she's grown old enough for the lad's mother-in-law, at least—but that's his business, and not mine.—
(Aside.)
—Oh, Miss!—we were afraid we had lost you for ever!
Too long have I been lost indeed, sir!—Oh! the tedious moments that—
Three short years seem to have made a little alteration in you, Miss—for the better—
Better, sir?—I thought, for the last twelve months, my poor heart would have been broken!—my grief of heart—
Well, then—under all your sorrows, and concerns, Miss—it's a pleasant thing to see you look so jolly!
Jolly, sir?—my sighs and tears, at one time, had nearly worn me into a consumption!
Now, a cousin-german of mine, in the county of Sligo—by bottleing up her tears too much in a hurry,—fell, poor soul, into a devil of a dropsy!
You've heard—you've heard, no doubt, sir, of my deplorable fate?
To be sure—and the old baronet's tricks into the bargain
but how came you with him at all, my dear Miss?
It was my cruel destiny—perhaps you've not heard how—I'll tell you the whole, sir—I'll tell you—
Oh, you may spare yourself all that trouble: little mittimus the justice's clerk told me every syllable.—If these are her "mild melody accents!" what a comical car must poor Wilford have for music?—
[Aside.]
—But come, madam—thank your stars that your faithful admirer is arriv'd—that old square toes, our uncle, is gone to take a peep at the other world!—and that you may now—if you please—be made a happy creature for your life to come.
Dear sir—you only flatter a woman's weak credulity—weak credulity!—But to whom do I owe the honour of so agreeable a visit—this agreeable visit?—for I blush to own—
My name, Miss, is Arthur O'Donnel, Esq.—I have the honour to command a company in Dillon's brigade—would lay down my life for my friend—and am arriv'd, with your leave, to take your sweet self to liberty, and the man you must love, and adore!
But, surely, sir, you are rather too impatient—too impatient;—besides, you know, sir, it requires time—
Time!—oh, have as little to do with that old rap as you can help.
Enter
BRIDGET,
hastily.
La! Ma'am, Sir Walter's getting off his horse at the keeper's lodge, and will be within, in a
ew minutes.
[Exit Bridget.
How unfortunate!—but the wretch is always in the way—always in the way!—Dear sir, I must beg the favour of you to retire!—I am afraid that—
Oh, never fear me, madam!—Let him come with his fighting face, and we'll see who has the best pretensions to you.
But I'm alarmed beyond measure for the consequence. —I intreat you to leave me for the present—leave me for the present!—and hereafter, you know—
Well, but if I file off—and suffer the enemy to repossess the garrison.—will you guarantee me another speedy interview—and hold yourself in readiness for a quick march at a moment's notice?
That requires a little consideration—but I'll talk with Medley on the subject—and from him expect to hear, when and where you may see me again: but may I rely on your honourable protection?—honourable protection—for a poor—helpless virgin—that—
[Exit.
AIR XXIII.
OH, sear not my courage, prov'd over and over!
Your soldier will rout each impertinent lover;
With a row-dow! I'll guard you—the foe shall your presence fly,
Who to fall in love here—must have tumbled, faith, pretty high!
With wide-spreading charms, like the
Lake of Killarney,
Dear creature, oh! listen to none of their blarney.
With a row-dow,
&c.
Your true-hearted lad is come galloping to you:
Oh! the
Salmon-leap
's nought to his slight to pursue you.
With a row-dow,
&c.
Your short date of beauty—your glib tongue contrasting,
Like our own
Giant's-Causeway,
will prove everlasting!
With a row-dow,
&c.
SCENE XV.
The Forest.
MEDLEY.
So far, I fancy, this little noddle of mine has succeeded pretty well!—Miss Di, I should hope is by this time, smitten with my cousin Tipperary—for I mistake my man, if, in this first visit, he made himself understood to be courting for any one—but himself!—Now must I contrive a few whimsical appointments—like so many cross bills in chancery—but with this difference—that mine are not intended to create—but to prevent mischief.
Enter
CAPT. O'DONNEL.
Well, my friend—did you meet with her as I informed you?
To be sure, and I did—for which I heartily thank you, my dear fellow.
You found her well, I hope?
Yes, hearty enough—considering the poor creature has almost fretted herself into a consumption!
Alter'd a little, no doubt?
Indeed, and you may say that—why, she's so plaguily alter'd, that she does not look like the same creature.—
But how should you know that captain? I thought you had never seen her before.
But haven't I seen her lover paint her to me a thousand times over?—though I now perceive, that he always took a very flatt'ring likeness.
"You did not stay long with her?
"And you may thank the old buck of a baronet for that.—Oh, there had like to have been the devil of a kick up about his discovering me with her!—but I made a prudent retreat—and Emily is to plan with yourself, when, and where I am to see her this afternoon!
"Very anxious, I suppose, to return with you?
"No faith—to tell you the truth, I thought that she put but a cool remembrance upon the worth of poor Wilford!"
Enter
BOB.
His Worship wants you, brother, directly.
And I his Worship—and I fancy on the same business.
Robert!—you're an honest fellow—and I'm not a little indebted to you, my dear.
[Shaking him by the hand.
None in the least, sir.
You wish'd, Captain, to learn something further about the little nymph with the blue sparklers?
To be sure and I did;—and you'll assist me;—upon my conscience, but it's a pleasant thing, to be able to do a good turn now and then by one another—an't it, Bob?
Ay, that it is, for certain.
Well then, go with my brother down to the Ballfac'd Stag—call for a bottle of wine, and by the time you're sat down to it—I'll be with you, and give you the clue you want.
My dear little fellow, how friendly will that be?—Come along, Bob; we'll soon draw the cork, boy, and drink to the lass we like best on the forest!
AIR XXIV.—
TRIO.
SHOULD Mirth be observ'd by her sons to decline,
They recruit her bright lamp with a flask of good wine!
When the glass circles round, and our spirits improve,
How sweet slows the b
per—to Friendship, and Love!
END OF ACT II.
ACT III.
SCENE.
The Forest.
WILFORD
alone.
WHICH way can I shape my further course with any prospect of success?—I have met with no one except a savage train of hunters, and they made but a sport of my distress!—Yon track seems the most beaten, and may lead me to our appointed rendezvous:—I'll explore my way thither, in expectation of some tidings from my friend's pursuit;—but my heart at this moment misgives me, and tells me, that Emily is estranged from it for ever!
AIR XXV.
'TIS in vain for succour calling,
Hope no more my bosom cheers!
Cruel fate that bliss appalling,
With her scroll of joyless years!
Come, Despair! and Distraction confound me!
Add still to my life's wretched load;
And while your mix'd horrors surround me,
This desert of wildness shall be my abode!
Hilliho!—hilliho!—ho!
That must be his welcome voice! halloa! boy; halloa!—
(Enter Capt. O'Donnel.)
—my dear friend! how rejoiced am I to see you!
And you may thank the luck of it, Wilford, that I shou'd make a blunder upon you so soon!
Well—what success?
Faith, as to the success—d'ye see—why—I can't very well tell.
Have you seen, or heard any thing of my Emily?
To be sure, I have seen her—and for the matter of that, have heard a little about her into the bargain!
Say, then—where? and how is she?
Oh, she's not far off—and, let me tell you, one of the plumpest, and sleekest does on the forest.—
Spoke she not of me with passionate anxiety?
Not a great deal of that—though she talk'd pretty freely too!—but the poor creature, Wilford, has lost all the "mild melody accents" that you told me so much about.
Pooh!—is this a time for jesting?
The devil a jest!—however you'll soon see her, and judge for yourself:—besides, you'll have to learn something about her, and an old fighting Sir Walter, where she's just gone on a comical kind of visit—which I can hardly make head, or tail of!
"Visit to an old fighting Sir Walter?"—What can all this mean?—oh! sly with me instantly to relieve my impatience.
And that I will, my friend—but I've a little impatience of my own to fly with first.—Had you ever the honor of a téte-à-téte, Wilford, with a pretty blooming a hop-ground?
Indeed, I take this very unfriendly, O'Donnel!
What! that I won't give up the chance of my own little wild doe, to go immediately after your's, which I've got safe enough in the toils for you?
Direct me but the way—
Well, then, if you are in such haste—you see that little crooked gladeway straight before you.—It leads to the village near which she lodges.—Enquire for the sign of the Stag, with the bald—white countenance—halt there—and in half an hour I'll be with you, and conduct you, myself, to your rivulet Emily.
But may I depend upon you?
Oh! as sure as fate!—
(Exit Wilford.)
—Poor fellow!—what a devil of a job will it be, if, after all this trouble, he should find his Emily so altered—that his own eyes and ears can't put a remembrance upon her! Give Arthur O'Donnel the girl neither quite so plump, nor so fond of changing.—To be sure, and I'm not going to meet a little creature just after my own heart! and, oh! will I not love her, as long as the frailty of my nature will permit?—Ay, that I will, by the—but be easy, Arthur,—let me swear by something that will not disgrace her!—
AIR XXVI.
BY her own lovely self, that's my choice, and delight;
By that form I could gaze on from morning 'till night;
By that bosom, so prettily veil'd from my sight,
I swear to adore the dear creature!
I swear to adore,
&c.
By the smiles on that cheek, I could ever caress;
By the stars, which her forehead so brilliantly dress;
By those lips, which—my own pair would willingly press,
I swear to adore the dear creature!
I swear to adore,
&c.
SCENE XV.
A Hop Ground.
Various Parties of Hop-pickers, working at the Cribs—Men taking down the Hop-Poles, &c. &c.
AIR XXVII.—
FULL CHORUS.
HAIL to the vine of Britain's vale!
Whose stores refine her nut-brown ale,
Till that like nectar flows;
Whose virtues—to this isle confin'd,
Are sent to cheer a Briton's mind,
Too gen'rous for his foes!
Enter
FAIRLOP.
Come, strike—strike, lads and lasses!—you've done a fair morning's work—and now all hands to the kiln to dinner!
[Exeunt Hop-pickers, &c.
Enter
MEDLEY.
I have luckily nick'd the time, I find!—but where's my cousin Tipperary?—Unless I trap this wild bird first, my whole plan will be destroy'd.
Enter
CAPT. O'DONNEL.
Well, my dear!—
Ecod, I sear it's not so well.
Why? what's the matter, little sellow?
Only your friend's damsel about to be moved off—that's all!
What is't you mean? Is it game you're making?
Sir Walter—hearing, I suppose, of your search after her, has, some how or other, prevailed upon her to be secretly convey'd to one of his tenants on the other side of the forest—and fix d this time and place, to meet her for that purpose—
And after all her fine speeches and promises to me?—But where's my little grig?—she won't slip thro' my fingers after this manner, I hope.
No—no—you're safe enough there—I was oblig'd, you know, to put off her coming for fear of a discovery:—But see, yonder appears one of the party—and the other, no doubt, will soon follow.
And Arthur O'Donnel will soon make another amongst them.
Suppose, then, we conceal ourselves hereabouts, and observe their motions?
With all my soul!
But see!—what a deuced black cloud there is coming up with the wind!
[The light gradually diminishes.
Well—and what of that?
Why, an't you afraid, Captain, that it will pepper your fine jacket for you?
Oh! not at all—a soldier's jacket is not made for sunshine—and mine, I know, won't turn its back to a flying shower.
If that's the case—step you behind that pile of hoppoles, while I get on the snug side of this tree.
Do so, little fellow,—saith and I have hid myself in many a worse ambuscade before now.
[Concealing himself.
Here he comes!—and the storm close at his skirts!
[Retires behind the tree.
Enter
SIR WALTER.
I don't much like the looks of the weather.—But here am I, snugly arrived first!
To be sure, my old Cockatoo, and you are not!
[Aside.
The sun seems to put rather a black face upon it!—but the hop-pickers are all out of the way—surely I can find a little shelter for her!—What a lucky opportunity to settle matters with the pretty rogue?
And with me at the same time, if you please.
[Aside.
Didn't I hear somebody?—No!—'twas only a rustling among the vines!—Who knows, but the little bashful hussey may be half concealed amongst them? I'll take a peep—and so forth.
[Walks into the hop-ground.
There's an abominable old gander for you!
[Aside.
Hush!—hush! for the hen bird's now on wing!
Enter
MISS DI CLACKIT,
in her Archery Dress.
How indiscreet to consent to this interview!
Indeed, Miss, and you may say that.
[Aside.
He's a man of honor, no doubt—But, bless me, how the sky lowers!—what shall I do, if I'm caught in a tempest?
Indeed, Miss, and you deserve a good sopping for your pains!
[Aside.
I thought I heard a footstep this way!
Your own, my dear—for you tread none of the lightest!
[Aside.
[Miss Di Clackit goes into the hop-ground.—A tempestuous shower comes on.—Capt. O'Donnel, and Medley laugh.
Faith they've got a souser!
So much the better.—To be sure, and I won't wing the old cock-bird, for crossing upon my own sport!
[Storm ceases.
AIR XXVIII.—
QUARTETTO.
Medley & Capt. O'Donnel.
MARK! how the cooing pair draws near!
Miss Di.
Why, Captain?
Sir Walter.
—Emily!
Both.
—I'm here!
Where are you? Here in half-drown'd state!
Medley & Capt. O'Donnel.
Hark, the old ring-dove calls his mate!
And now, Matt, must you avoid an untimely explanation.
[Exit.
[Sir Walter, and Miss Di return, and first discover each other, with astonishment, as Capt. O'Donnel advances between them unbuttoning his lapels, and carelessly throwing the rain off his hat.
What a mighty pretty joke is love in a shower!
[Looking at them alternately.
Upon my soul—Madam!—I—can't say—that—that I expected the honor of this ducking—to—to meet you here!—
Nor I—sir—the pleasure of catching my death, for the—the—felicity of seeing you here!—Provoking wretch!—
(Aside.)
—You may think, sir—
Oh, palliluh!—I did not hope for the honor of expecting you here—nor I the pleasure of seeing you there—
(imitating them)
—when you had both contrived the whole farce beforehand—except the happiness of seeing my own self—any where!
This is very extraordinary behaviour in you, sir!
[To Capt. O'Donnel.
And have I caught you out, Cousin
Prudery,
at last?
[Exultingly.
What is it you mean, sir?—I came—
To learn to pick hops according to the articles of war!—but you've got a good sopping for't—and so forth.
[Aside to her.
There's an honest fellow in the world, Madam, who has reason to expect better usage at your hands.
Excellent!—What say you to that, Coz?—Tho' she has flushed my pretty game—I can match her—for now I shall be able to silence her clapper—by positive evidence of the fact!
[Aside.
To you, sir, I hope I shall find time to explain myself; and as to my cousin Wiseacre—
[Exit.
Oh, Madam, the thing is bad enough without any further explanation.
And pray, sir, who may you be—that come in this impudent, blustering manner, to poach after a part of my family?
Part of your family?—That's a good joke, my old boy!—
(laughing.)
—but I'll soon settle that.—As you're such a dev'lish fighting fellow—d'ye see—why, you may be pleas'd to give me a little account your own self— for daring to presume, to seduce the mistress of my friend.
I seduce!—I—a fighting fellow!
Come, come—make no more words about it:—you'll meet me, my old buck, without further ceremony, on this very spot, to-morrow morning, at sun-set—that I may not be compell'd to post you—upon ev'ry pole in your own hop-ground.
Damme, if I think this fellow's any thing but a bully after all!—I'll try him, however—
(Aside.)
—Look ye, Captain Bounceabout!—I have served three campaigns, in our county militia, with some credit!—and, let me tell you, sir—I am no more afraid than you, or any other man—of sire! sword!—and so forth!
So much the better, my dear.
AIR XXIX.—
DUET.
THE dreadful weapons choose, sir!
No, that I must refuse, sir;
We'll bring enough,
Then sight in buff,
'Twill make important news, sir!
Sword! pike! and hand-grenade!
Will prove us not afraid,
O'Don.
With these try well to hack me;
Sir Walt.
With these you think to hack me;
But being brave,
I'll only have
Capt. O'Don.
—My honor's self to back me!
Sir Walt.
—Twelve constables
[Exeunt.
SCENE XVI.
MEDLEY
alone, in an Archery Dress, with a Bugle Horn.
What would I give, to know how they've settled their matters?—but we shall have it piping hot when Miss Di comes on the forest, I'll warrant it!—Now to muster my female troop.
[Winds his bugle.
Enter
BOB.
Here they come, brother Matt—and a pretty shew they make, sure enough!—
(Female Archers trip in, proceded by forest colours—and a pastoral band of music.)
Well, my sprightly lasses!—now fall in—and we'll soon march off to the Oak—and see who's to win the pretty prize heifer.
AIR XXX.—
SESTETTO.
Female Arch.
Oh sweet Mr. Medley, I say!
But mind Mr. Medley, I say!
Come dear Mr. Medley, I say!
Medley.
What the deuce is the matter?
Bob.
How neatly they prattle!
Medley.
If you keep such a clatter,
Bob.
What sweet pretty prattle!
Medley.
No game on the forest will stay,
F. Arch. & Bob.
—Oh sie!
Medley.
But hence it will fly.
To Old Nick in a trice to get out of your way!
Female Arch.
Oh sweet Mr. Medley, I say!
But mind Mr. Medley, I say!
Come dear Mr. Medley, I say!
Medley.
Now don't stretch your lungs—
Female Arch.
We mind not your sneers:
Medley.
For to all your glib tongues
Little Husseys you know,
F. Arch. & Bob.
Come, pray let us go!
Medley.
I've only but one pair of ears!
Med. & Bob.
—Pretty dears!
(Female Archers—all talking together.)
"But I say, Mr. Medley!"—"Now, dear Mr. Medley!" &c. &c. &c.
Halloah!—why, if you keep up this clatter, I tell you again, that all the game will break the bbounds of the forest!—
(Female Archers talking together again.)
"Ay, but Mr. Medley—suppose I say, Mr. Medley, &c. &c.
"Now pray talk a little gently, sweet ones!
["
Bob, and Kitty Maple, looking at the colours, inscribed
IN MEDIO PALMA."]
"An't they very gay, and pretty?
"Yes, very smart indeed!
"They were done, spick and span new, at London!
"Ay—but what's the signification of the gold writing, Mr. Bob?
"Oh! that's our Vicar's doings—it's Arabac, I believe—but ask my brother Matt—he can tell you all about it.—
"So I will.—Mr. Medley, what does this here mean?
[Pointing to the Motto.
"That there, my love?
"Yes, that—
"Why, as to
Archery,
it means—that—if—but, perhaps, you'd like a free translation best?
"Dear! I don't care!
"Why then the plain meaning is that,—the middle's your mark!—Now for it, girls!—come, Kitty Maple, stand you to the right.—
(Places her.)
—You ought to shoot well, hussey—for your father was always a dead hand at pulling the long bow—
[All laugh.
"I wonder you an't asham'd of your wicked self!"
Here, Betsy Blewit—stand by the side of her—very well.—S
cky Wheatsheaf, and Jenny Whitethorn, you are next—now let the rest drop in—two and two.—But where the deuce are the little woodside nymphs?
I'll go and fetch 'em, brother.
Do, Bob!—tell 'em they'll be too late, if they don't put their best foot first.
[Exit Bob.
Somebody, I see, thinks there'll be no sport, if some folks an't here!
[All laugh.
Smartly said, Kitty!—I don't know how they may shoot an arrow—but you must take care, or some folks will hit as far with their sparklers, as the best of you!—Now strike up, pipers!—
AIR XXXI.—
COME lasses! Follow me,
With merry glee,
To sports of Woodland Archery!
CHORUS
of Female
ARCHERS.
With merry glee,
We follow thee,
To sports of Woodland Archery!
[Medley puts himself at their head, and they march off to the repeat of the Chorus.
SCENE XIX.
The Forest.
DOLLY
alone, with her Bow, &c.
Dear, dear!—what can I do?—We shall certainly be too late!—and you will not go?—
(Speaking to Emily behind)
—How can you be so unkind?
Enter
BOB.
Come! come! my pretty ones—they are all marched to the ground—with music and streamers!—and by this time her Ladyship, Miss Dinah, is there!—Matt sent me to look for you!—But where's Miss Emily?
There she sits under that tree—and won't budge an inch, for all I can say to her!
EMILY,
entering.
I beg you to excuse me, Dolly!—let me go back—say I am unwell!—
Now, pray you, Miss Emily, come along with us—the sight will be worth nothing without you!
Well, since you will have it so—proceed—
[Sound of a Bugle horn, within the Forest.
AIR XXXII.—
GLEE.
HARK—the Bugle's sylvan strain,
Calls us to the sportive plain,
Scene of artless love!
Shepherds—faithful tales advancing,
Maidens hearts in transport dancing,
Happy may they prove!
How blissful then the Wood-nymphs green retreat,
Where Love, and Innocence enraptur'd meet!
SCENE XX.
View of the Oak.
Tents—Targets—Forest Colours, &c.—Female Archers, &c. ranged on each Wing—A Dance, in Character, commences on Miss Di Clackit's entering, and taking her Seat at the Front of the Forest.—At the Close of the Dance, Medley winds his Bugle Horn, and the Female Archers take their respective Posts.
Are they all here?—are they all ready?—"I'm so flurried, and confused!
[To Medley apart.
"What's the matter, Ma'am?
"Would you think it?—My blundering Cousin has discover'd me in the hop-ground!
"Why, that was a little awkward, to be sure—but I can manage it, Ma'am—by swearing, that I sent you there on purpose to meet him!
"My dear Medley—can you, indeed—can you, indeed?—but then if he—
"Oh! never trouble yourself about it—to be sure I can—and with a pretty safe conscience, I fancy!
[Aside.
"As to the Captain—I can easily set him right myself—but I wonder he's not here.—
(Walks towards the Female Archers.)
—You've pick'd a tolerable set—tolerable set!—Hold up your head, girl—hold up your head!"
[To one of the Female Archers.
All ready—quite ready, Madam.—Where the deuce can my little hussies be?
[Aside.
As they are already—you may sound the charge, and let the archery commence; though I don't know—
[Medley winds his bugle.
EMILY, DOLLY,
and
BOB
enter.
That's her Ladyship, Sir Walter's cousin, sitting alone!
[Medley observes them, as the two first Archers stand forth.]
Oh, you're come at last!—but you've lost your turns—so stay here, Dolly, till I call you—for I must attend the targets.—
(The shooting commences cross-ways at targets placed on each side of the Oak.—Medley holding in his hand a card, on which to mark the different shots.)
Pretty well, Kitty—but levell'd a little too high!—Better, much better, Betsey Blewitt—just within the third circle!—very well, indeed!—
(After two other shots.)
—Oh, bad, very bad!—
(Two others.)
—Excellent!—Well done, Jenny!—within three inches of the bull's eye!—Let me see who'll beat that?
Who's nearest, Medley?—who's nearest?—who's nearest?
Oh, Madam, Jenny Hawthorn! hollow!—
(Shews Miss Di the mark'd card:—while the Female Archers march to music for their arrows, and return to different sides.)
[Medley takes Dolly out to shoot.
Now for it, Dolly—Now, Dolly!
Don't rattle and talk so fast, Medley—you confuse 'em—you confuse 'em—besides, if they—
Oh, worst of all, Dolly!—No heifer for you, Doll—but you think a good husband prize enough for one day, I suppose?
[To her aside.
Of all conscience, Matt—I'm content!
Enter
WILFORD
and
CAPT. O'DONNEL,
near the Oak.
Where is the perfidious Emily?
Oh, there she sits—
(Pointing to Miss Di)
—just as unconcerned—as if nothing had happen'd at all!
(Walking towards Miss Di, starts back!—turning to O'Donnel)
Why add mockery to my distress?
Oh, the Captain's here!—I'll pretend not to observe him.
[Aside.
Don't be alarm'd, there's a dear.
But here's a creature, Wilford—here's one—
(beckoning to Wilford)
—after my own choice.
[At this instant Emily shoots—and hits the centre of the target.—Bugle sounds.
She's won it—she's won it!
AIR XXXIII.—
CHORUS.
TO Beauty's shaft the prize decree,
In strains of antient minstrelsy!
[Wilford and Emily at this instant behold each other—she sinks on Dolly's arm—Capt. O'Donnel runs and supports her.
Can it be possible?
Oh! very possible! keep a little back.—
(To Wilford.)
—It's only a small flutteration at seeing me—'twill soon be over—see how she revives, at the sound of my own voice!
[Emily recovers.
Oh, my Emily!
And do I live again to behold my faithful Wilford?
Oh, oh! the pretty lost lamb's own'd at last!—the plot will unravel fast—I must to Sir Walter, and by a full consession, secure a free pardon.
[Exit.
What is the matter?—what is the cause of this confusion?—Pray, sir—how have I deserved this usage? am I so alter'd that you don't recollect me—don't recollect me? Surely, Captain—
Faith and troth—for the matter of that—tho' you have forgot yourself—I know you well enough, Miss Emily, and all your pranks!
Miss Emily?—all my pranks? What can he mean? what can he mean?—You well know, sir, my name is Dinah; and that I am the nearest relation of Sir Walter Waring—tho' you are all conspiring against my honor? but justice, I hope—
[Exit.
Upon my conscience, I begin to fancy we are all as mad as wild geese! Harkee, Wilford, is it you, or me, that this bewitching rogue has beplundered out of our senses?
It is I, my friend, who have lost mine in love, and admiration!
AIR XXXIV.
OH tell me,
Memory!
no more,
What woe in banishment was mine—
What pain this lab'ring bosom bore,
Compell'd its treasure to resign!
But tell me, Memory—more kind,
The envy'd transports I regain;
Record them on my grateful mind,
That not a sorrow may remain!
But where is the rustic guardian of my Emily?
Enter
FAIRLOP.
Here—
(Pointing to Fairlop.)
—My kind, disinterested protector!
Lackaday! what is all this?
Oh, father!—Miss Emily's sweetheart's found, and this is he!
I wish I could express the obligations I owe to you.
Pooh! pooh! why do you give the gentleman all this trouble? May I be free enough to speak a word of my mind?
By all means!
Then, set you, sir, as much store by this treasure thro' life—
(takes her hand)
—as I have done but for three short months—and, trust a plain man, we shall all be sufficiently rewarded!
Generous woodman! Emily, you must prevail upon your adopted sister, to attend you to Wilford Lodge.
What say you, my dear friend, Dolly?
Enter
MEDLEY.
Oh! that's impossible, Ma'am—she may soon have a house full of children of her own to take care of!
[Conceitedly.
How is all this?
The audacious wretch coax'd me into a kind of promise this morning;—and I can't find in my heart to be worse than my word.
Why then, give Dolly the little prize-cow, for a bride's portion—I think, Wilford, you'll not be after making a bull of that now.
Enter
SIR WALTER,
followed by Female Archers, &c.
Come along, come along! and see how I administer justice among 'em.—I arrest you all in my own name!—and so forth.
Pray, sir, what may be your charge against us?—
(Smiling.)
—It's a bailable offence, I trust?
Yes, if you put in your appearance at my house, where, with your consent, we'll have a merry night on't—and so forth.
[Shaking Wilford by the hand.
But perhaps, Miss Emily—
Won't resist my authority, when she knows I've a chaplain at hand, who can soon bind her over to good behaviour for life.
Upon my conscience, Sir Walter, but you may command Arthur O'Donnel, esquire.—Give me your hand, my old buck—it's a pleasanter thing to draw a cork, than a sword, with an honest fellow, at any time.—But hark ye, little Mittimus, there'll be no need for that Snap-dragon—Miss
Consumption
there, to be one of the party!
But, my best of friends, with your permission,—we'll transplant you to a larger farm, where you may acquire the means of extending your benevolence.
With thanks for your kindness, sir,—as my Landlord's ill-will is blown over, I'll live, and die by my native woodside! But, before you rob me and Dolly of our pretty companion, and depart—stop at our cottage by the way—and, if you can break bread with a lowly man—you shall have his blessing into the bargain.
VAUDEVILLE.
CHORUS.
TUNE the pipe, and strike the tabor,
Quickly join their faithful hands;
This is not a time for labour,
While young Joy on tip-toe stands!
Sir Walter Waring, to Emily.
JUSTICE bids me now befit you,
Blind to all your roguish charms;
So I'll certainly
commit
you—
To an honest husband's arms!
Tune the Pipe,
&c.
DUET.—
Wilford, and Emily.
Fearless now our vows are plighted,
Hence the clouds of sorrow fly!
Love, and constancy united,
Thus restore a tranquil sky.
Tune the Pipe,
&c.
DUETT.—
Dolly, and Medley.
Med.
—
Dolly
—mind you love me dearly!
Doll.
—Never fear if you are true:
Med.
—Scolding, I shall take but queerly,
Doll.
—Chiding, I shall take but queerly,
Both.
—Sulky fits will never do!
Tune the pipe,
&c.
CAPT. O'DONNEL.
Marriage faith's a pretty notion,
If you could but change a wife;
But a soldier loves promotion—
Not a warm campaign for life!
Tune the pipe,
&c.
FAIRLOP.
'Though my Woodland thus you plunder,
Of the sweetest plant that grew,
At the loss I cannot wonder—
May it better thrive with you.
FULL CHORUS.
Tune the pipe, and strike the tabor,
Quickly join their faithful hands;
This is not a time for labour,
While young Joy on tip-toe stands!
FINIS.
ADDITIONAL SONG,
By the
AUTHOR,
introduced on Saturday in the Comic Opera of
THE WOODMAN.
RONDEAU—Mrs. BILLINGTON.
Court me not to scenes of pleasure,
This fond heart no more must know;
Can it beat to Mirth's gay measure,
All its strings attun'd to woe?
No! the mind by Hope forsaken,
But of Sorrow seeks relief:
Joy no transport can awaken,
Sighs must number out its grief.