THE POOR SOLDIER, A COMIC OPERA.
IN TWO ACTS. WITH ALL THE ORIGINAL SONGS.
WRITTEN BY
JOHN O'KEEFE,
Esq
AUTHOR of the SON-IN-LAW, AGREEABLE SURPRISE, CASTLE OF ANDALUSIA, And other Dramatic Pieces.
AS ACTED AT THE Theatre-Royal, Covent Garden.
A NEW EDITION, IMPROVED, and carefully CORRECTED.
DUBLIN: Printed by M. DOYLE, No. 6, Abbey-Street.
MDCCLXXXIV.
[Price an English SIX-PENCE.]
Dramatis Personae.
MEN.
 
LONDON.
DUBLIN.
PAT, the Poor Soldier,
Mr. Kennedy,
Mr. Wood.
Captain FITZROY,
Mr. Bannister,
Mr. Cubitt.
BAGATELLE,
Mr. Wewitzer,
Mr. G. Dawson.
DERMOT,
Mr. Johnston,
Mr. Palmer.
DARBY,
Mr. Edwin,
Mr. Ryder.
Father LUKE,
Mr. Wilson,
Mr. O'Reilly.
WOMEN.
NORAH,
Mrs. Bannister,
Miss Jarrett.
KATHLEEN,
Mrs. Martyr,
Mrs. Hitchcock.
The Poor Soldier.
ACT I.
SCENE, A
Country Village.
View of Kathleen's House.
DERMOT and DARBY.
FOR shame, Darby—Stay where you are—I hate to have any one by when I'm talking to my sweetheart.
Now I always like to be by when I'm talking to my sweetheart.
Oh, that I was so unfortunate as to think her a pretty girl!
Upon my soul now, she is grown very uncivil, for she turns up her nose at me.
I know one she will have—the old soldier.
Is some old Frenchman to take the girl from poor Darby!
(Weeps.)
—I never dream but of poor Kathleen—But here we are under the window—Father Luke threatened poor Pat, that if he came to his ward, Norah, he would put him into the bishop's court, and therefore, Pat, full of grief and vexation, went for a soldier.
Holeo! Kathleen—she little dreams that her Dermot's under the window.
AIR I.
[Tune, Ulcian and Ha Oh!]
Sleep on, sleep on, my Kathleen dear,
May peace possess thy breast;
Yet dost thou dream thy true love's here,
Depriv'd of peace and rest?
II.
The birds sing sweet, the morning breaks,
Those joys are none to me;
Tho' sleep is fled, poor Dermot wakes,
To none, but love and thee!
Exit.
That singing would not wake an owl out of her sleep.—I'll try.
Tune, Master Willy Blakeny.
Dear Kathleen, you, no doubt,
Find sleep how very sweet 'tis;
Dogs bark, and cocks have crow'd out,
You never dream how late 'tis.
This morning gay,
I post away,
To have with you a bit of play.
On two legs rid,
Along to bid
Good morrow to your night cap.
II.
Last night a little bowzy,
With whiskey, ale, and cyder,
I ask'd young Betty Blowsey,
To let me sit beside her.
Her anger rose,
And sour as sloes,
The little gypsy cock'd her nose:
Yet here I've rid,
Along to bid
God morrow to your night cap.
(Kathleen appears at the Window.)
Who is that?—Dermot?
Yes I am—Darby.
(Aside.)
Stay I'll come down.
Oh, I knew I should bring her down—I am a fine marksman.
Enter
KATHLEEN.
So you must come singing at my window, but I tell you once for all, I won't have you—as I hope for man I won't.
That's a good joke!—hope for man, and not have me.
I'll tell you.
AIR III.
Since love is the plan,
I'll love if I can,
But first let me tell you what sort of a man:
In address how compleat,
And in dress, spruce and neat,
No mater how tall, so he's over five feet:
Not dull, nor too witty,
His eyes I'll think pretty,
If sparkling with pleasure wherever we meet.
II.
Tho' gentle he be,
His man he shall see,
Yet never be conquer'd by any but me.
In a song bear a bob,
In a glass a hob nob,
Yet drink of his reason his noddle ne'er rob.
This is my fancy,
If such a man can see,
I'm his if he's mine; until then I am free.
Have I not every thing comfortable about me? —A snug farm, heifers, and sheep, and a pad to ride on to chapel on Sunday, and a potatoe garden to walk in on a week day—only look at me—I am as right a fellow as you have ever seen.
Don't think of talking to me.—Do you know that I am an heiress?
You are a tight little heifer.—I believe your father, old Jorum, who kept the alehouse, left you well enough in the world, as a body may say.
Left me well enough indeed!—Did he not leave me a great sum of money, a matter of 11l. half a barrel of ale untapped, half a dozen plates, a three-legged stool, and a bald filly to ride on?
Now she is got upon her bald filly, the devil himself would not take her down.
Aside.
Now I am an heiress, a husband I'll have, this night, if I can.
DARBY and KATHLEEN.—Duett.
[Tune, Doots and Phiggeen.]
Out of my sight, or I'll box your ears.
I'll fit you for your jibes and jeers.
I'll cock my cap at a smart young man.
Another I'll wed this day, if I can.
— In courtship funny,
— One sweet as honey!
— You drone.
No Kate, I'm your humble bee,
Go dance your dogs with a fiddle dee dee. For a sprightly lad is the man for me.
You'll ne'er meet such a kind soul as me.
II.
Like sweet milk turn'd, to me now seems love.
The fragrant rose does a nettle prove.
Sour curds I taste, tho' sweet milk I chuse.
And with a flow'r I sting my nose.
In courtship, &c.
Exeunt severally.
SCENE II.
A Country House and Wood.
Enter
Captain
FITZROY.
Here's the house that contains my charming Norah, I shall soon rouse them, I warrant.
AIR V.
The twins of Latona, so kind to my boon,
Arise to partake of the chase;
And Sol lends a ray to chaste Dian's fair moon,
And a smile to the smiles of her face.
For the sport I delight in, the bright queen of love
With myrtles my brows shall adorn;
While Pan breaks his chaunter, and skulks in the grove,
Excell'd by the sound of the horn.
The dogs are uncoupled, and sweet is their cry,
Yet sweeter the notes of sweet echo's reply:
Hark forward, my honies, the game is in view,
But love is the game that I wish to pursue.
II.
The stag from his chamber of woodbine peeps out,
His sentence he hears in the gale;
Yet flies, till, entangled in fears and in doubt,
His courage and constancy fail.
Surrounded by foes, he prepares for the fray,
Despair taking place of his fear;
With antlers erected, a while stands at bay,
Then surrenders his life with a tear.
The dogs are uncoupled, &c.
Enter
NORAH.
AIR VI.
The meadows look chearful, the birds sweetly sing,
So gaily they carol the praises of spring;
Tho' nature rejoices, poor Norah shall mourn,
Until her dear Patrick again shall return.
II.
Ye lasses of Dublin, ah, hide your gay charms,
Nor lure her dear Patrick from Norah's fond arms;
Tho' sattins, and ribbons, and laces are fine,
They hide not a heart with such feelings as mine.
As I live that's the gentleman my guardian is always teazing me about.
My charming Norah, let us haste from this place,—and our cares shall be few.
I cannot stay.
Perhaps my Norah will take a walk with me.—See the garden is yonder—The fine morning with you is charming, but appears to me nothing without you.
I.
For you, dearest maiden, the pride of the village,
The town and its pleasures I freely resign;
Delights spring from labour, and science from tillage,
Where love, peace, and innocence sweetly combine:
Soft tender affection, what bliss in possessing!
How blest when 'tis love that insures us a blessing!
Caress;'d; ah, what rapture in mutual caressing,
What joy can I wish for, was Norah but mine!
II.
The feasts of gay fashion with splendor invite us,
Where luxury, pride, and her follies attend;
The banquet of reason alone should delight us,
How sweet the enjoyment when shar'd with a friend!
Be thou that dear friend, then, my comfort, my pleasure,
A look is my sun-shine, a smile is my treasure.
Thy lips, if consenting, give joy beyond measure,
A rapture so perfect, what joy can transcend!
Pray, Sir, permit me to withdraw, as our villagers are very cenforious, and our being seen together will neither add to your honour, or my reputation.
Exit Norah.
Enter
BAGATELLE.
Monsieur—Monsieur!
What do you want?
I came to tell you—bless my soul, I run so fast—I came to tell you—I am out of breath—it is all blown.
What's blown?—My love affair I suppose.
Aside.
De Mareschall Powder is all blown out of de vindow.
Then you must send to town for more.
Exit.
BAGATELLE
solus.
I think I do very well, in the very village where I was born the people take me for a Frenchman, though I do not know one word of French.—Here lives my old sweetheart Norah! O my dear Norah!
Enters the house.
Enter
PAT.
Once more returned to my native village after two long years absence.—Up to the heart in love, and not a six-pence in my pocket.
Enter
DARBY.
Odds zounds—I am glad to see you—What my soldier returned?—How are you, my old friend?
(Shakes him by the hand.)
I thank you, I am bravely.—How fares it?
Purely—except one thing—a cow strayed from me last week.
How does my dear Norah?
She is very well.—How came you to list for a soldier?
When her uncle would not give his approbation to my marriage with Norah, and I could not have her without his consent, I lifted for a soldier.
Well, and how do you like being a soldier?
A soldier is the finest life in the world.
Then how happy you live.
[PAT
sings.
]
PATRICK—AIR VII.
[Tune, Little House under the Hill.]
How happy the Soldier who lives on his pay,
And spends half a crown out of six-pence a day!
Yet fears neither justices, warrants, or bums,
But pays all his debts with the roll of his drums.
With a row de-dow, &c.
II.
He cares not a marvedy how the world goes,
The King finds him quarters, and money and clothes:
He laughs at all sorrow, whenever it comes,
And rattles away with the roll of the drums.
With a row-de dow, &c.
III.
The drum is his glory, his joy and delight;
It leads him to pleasure, as well as to fight.
No girl when she hears it, tho' ever so glum,
But packs up her tatters, and follows the drum.
With a row-de-dow, &c.
We will have all the neighbours here to day. A soldier's is a happy life.
Will you be a soldier?—then come with me, and I will introduce you to the serjeant.
Ecod, with all my heart, I think I should look very well in regimentals.
Let me see how this hat will become you.
(Puts it on his head.)
What cut is that on your forehead?
Only a wound I got in battle in endeavouring to save my captain's life—I was left for dead in the field of battle, bleeding in my country's cause—there was glory for you.
So they found you bleeding in your glory—here take your hat—I don't think regimentals would become me at all.
Why, what's the matter?
Nothing, only it's so conceited for a man to wear a black patch. Good bye, Pat.
Where are you going? This is the way to the serjeant's.
No, no, this is the way to my serjeant's—the devil row-de-dow me if you get me to be a soldier.
Exit.
PAT
solus.
Now for my charming Norah! and then for a pitcher of friendship with all my acquaintances.
[Sings.]
AIR VIII.
The wealthy fool with gold in store,
Will still desire to grow richer;
Give me but health, I ask no more,
My little girl, my friend and pitcher.
My friend so rare, &c.
Tho' fortune ever shuns my door,
(I know not what can thus bewitch her)
With all my heart: can I be poor,
With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher?
My friend, &c.
END of ACT I.
ACT II.
SCENE,
Inside of Father
Luke
's House.
BAGATELLE
(goes to
Norah'
s door.)
MADEMOISELLE Norah, open de door if you please.
(from within)
Begone about your business.
My dear Norah, give me une petite kiss.
(without.)
Where is my sweet girl, my Norah?
O be gar, here be somebody coming, what shall me do! Begar me go hide myself in dis closet.
(Runs to hide.)
Enter
PAT.
(from within.)
Begone about your business; desire you will leave the house directly.
What is this I hear; sure I know that voice — A pretty compliment after two years absence!
Enter
NORAH.
Is it you, my dearest Pat?
Sweet Norah, if I was ever dear to you.
If I was ever dear to you, how could you leave me then?—but judge of me by these tears.
My charming girl, what tears are these?
They are tears of joy at your return.
Ah pauvre Bagatelle!
Exit.
I think I hear a noise.
If it should be my uncle, what will become of me? for he's more averse to our union than ever.
I'll slip into the closet.
[Pat goes to the closet. Bagatelle comes out.]
How you do, Sir? me hope you very well.
(to Norah.)
Are these your sighs for my absence, and tears of joy at my return, to be lock'd up with a rascally hair-dresser.
Rascal—hair dresser,—You shall give me satisfaction—You shall meet me with—
What, with your curling irons—away with you, or I will beat you while I can hold a splinter of Shillelah, or do you chuse to walk out of the window?
Sir, to oblige you, I will walk out of the window—but I had much rather walk down stairs.
Begone.—
[
Exit
Bagatelle.]
Ah! my dear Norah, could I think you would be so unkind to me?
Could you think me false?
If I did, my heart is my own, however.
DUET.
PATRICK and NORAH.
A rose tree in full bearing,
Had sweet flowers fair to see;
One rose beyond comparing,
For beauty attracted me.
Tho' eager then to win it,
Lovely, blooming, fresh and gay;
I find a canker in it,
And now throw it far away.
How fine this morning early,
All sunshiny, clear and bright!
So late I lov'd you dearly,
Tho' lost now each fond delight.
The clouds seem big with showers,
Sunny beams no more are seen;
Farewell ye fleeting hours,
Your falsehood has chang'd the scene.
How fine, &c.
SCENE II.
A Wood.
Enter
DARBY, followed by BAGATELLE.
Monsieur Darby — Monsieur Darby?
without.
I believe that's Monsieur
Bag
and
Tail.
I am glad I find you, Darby,—I was hunting you all over the village, and could not find you.
That's because I am so wrapt up in love.
You must know I am going to kill Pat the soldier, and you must be my friend.
Had not you better kill Dermet, and
then
I'd be your friend?
Oh, but Pat the soldier has affront me—you shall be my second.
Your
second!
—could not you make me your
third
or
fourth?
(Shewing a letter.)
By gar, this be de lettre de moi.
Oh, what, you'll
leather him more!
C'est une autre chose.
What, I must get
two other shoes!
C'est un barbare.
What, because
you're a barber!
Oh!—this is de lettre Lord Lofty's coachman did write for me—You read, Darby.
Let me see—"This comes hopping"—Oh, I'll
run all
the way if that's all—
This comes hopping you're in good health, as I am at this present writing:—Tho' you think yourself a great officer, you shall not make me walk out of the window. I will have Norah in spite of you. Meet me at the Elm Groves at seven o'clock to give me satisfaction; but not with curling irons. I am your's, as in duty bound.
You see I will not sign my name, because I do avoid the law. You must carry it for me.
I'll take care Pat shall have it.
Well, now I have settled this affair d'honneur, I will
go
—brush my master's coat.
Exit
Bag.
DARBY
solus.
Since Pat is turned soldier, I will not give it him, for as he wanted Monsieur Bag and Tail to walk out of de window, he may perhaps want me to walk up the chimney—the boy at the public house shall give it him.—Oh! my Kathleen, you have made me fall in love, it would have been well for me if I had fallen into the river.
SONG.
[Tune,
There was a School Mistress in Limerick.
]
Tho' late I was snug, plump, and jolly,
I now am as thin as a rod;
Oh! I'm afraid this same melancholy,
Will soon leave me under the sod.
Dootherum, doodle-adgity, nadgety, tragedy, rum,
Gooseterum, foodle-igity, fidgety, nidgety, mum.
Oh! Kathleen, why would you flout me,
A boy that is cozey and warm;
Has every thing decent about me,
My snug little cabbin and farm.
Dootherum, &c.
What tho' I have not sav'd much money,
No duns in my chamber attend;
A Sunday I ride on my pony,
And still have a bit for a friend.
Dootherum, &c.
The cock courts his hens all around me,
The sparrow, the pigeon, and dove;
Oh! how all this courtship confounds me,
For want of the girl that I love!
Dootherum, &c.
Enter PAT and NORAH.
I find more danger in encountering the eyes of my charming girl, than in a battle; and can you prefer your poor soldier to all mankind?
You are only a common soldier in the army, but to me you are a field officer in my heart.
NORAH
Sings.
AIR XI.
Farewell, ye groves, and chrystal fountains,
The gladsome plains, and silent dell;
Ye humble vales, and lofty mountains,
And welcome now a lonely cell.
And ah, farewell, fond youth, most dear!
Thy tender plaint, the vow sincere,
We'll meet and share the parting tear,
And take a long and last farewell.
PATRICK.—AIR XII.
Tho' Leixlip is proud of its close shady bow'rs,
Its clear falling waters, and murm'ring cascades;
Its groves of sweet myrtle, its beds of sweet flow'rs,
Its lads so well dress'd, and its neat pretty maids.
As each his own village must still make the most of,
In praise of dear Carton, I hope I'm not wrong;
Dear Carton, containing what kingdoms may boast of,
'Tis Norah, dear Norah, the theme of my song,
II.
Be gentlemen fine, with their spurs and nice boots on,
Their horses to start on the Curragh of Kildare;
Or dance at the ball, with their Sunday new suits on,
Lac'd waistcoats, white gloves, and their nice powder'd hair.
Poor Pat, while so blest in his mean humble station,
For gold, or for acres, he never shall long;
One sweet smile can give him the wealth of a nation,
From Norah, dear Norah, the theme of my song.
Enter the CAPTAIN.
What! do I see my lass in company with a common soldier?
You will be sure to come at the time you promised.
I will—most happy am I!
Exit
Norah.
Good morrow, brother soldier—A good handsome girl that?
She is thought so, Sir.
You seem to be well with her.
Yes, sir, but I fear I shall soon lose her.
You have a rival then, I suppose.
I have, Sir.
Now for a picture of myself.
[Aside.]
Some rich rascal, I suppose?
I envy him not his riches—and as to your other epithet, I am sure he does not deserve it.
How so?
Because he is an officer, and therefore a man of honour.
It is a pity
you
was not an officer! You have been in the service?
Yes, I have seen some service. I was wounded at the battle of Johnson's Ford, in America, in saving my captain's life.
(As I live, the very man who saved my life in that engagement.)
[aside.]
I hope that you got your reward?
I looked for none; I did no more than my duty in fighting for my country, and in defending my captain.
Where are you going?
I am going from her I love; because fortune prevents our union.
Take my advice,—go and see her once more.
Sir, you seem a good-natur'd gentleman, I will venture to see her again, since you advise me.
Exit
Pat.
CAPTAIN
Solus
What a noble spirit! Let the embroider'd epaulet distinguish the officer: Let him take a lesson from this man. There is more merit to be found, perhaps, under this worsted lace, than under gold or silver tassels.
Enter BOY,
with a Letter.
Are you the man in the red coat?
Yes, my boy, I believe I am the man in the red coat; what's your business with me?
Darby desir'd me to give you this.
Who?
Darby.
Exit.
Let's see? reads.
This comes, hopping you are in good health as I am at present. You think yourself a great officer; but you shall not make me walk out of the window again. I will have Norah in spite of you. Meet me at the Elm Groves, at seven o'clock, to give me satisfaction; but not with curling irons. I am your's, as in duty bound.
This Norah seems to have a number of admirers. And so, my little hero—heyday, the herald is off—Seven o'clock—Smyth, go and see what sort of stuff this challenger is made of.
Exit.
SCENE III.
Outside of
Dermot's
House.
Enter Father LUKE and DERMOT.
Well, now, Dermot, I'm come to your house with you—what is this business?
I tell you, Sir.
Aye do; speak freely—unburden your conscience the same as if—Have you tapp'd that barrel of ale yet?
Indeed I have, and you shall taste it.
Exit into the House.
F. LUKE
solus.
Aye, he wanted to come round me now about my ward Kathleen; a wheedling son of a—
Enter Dermot
from the House, with a Jug of Ale.
My dear child, what's that?
Your favourite brown jug, sir.
(after drinking.)
Now, child, why will you do these things?
I'll prime him well before I speak about Kathleen; 'tis a hard heart that a drop o' drink won't soften.
This jug and I have been old acquaintance, Dermot.
You may say that, Sir.—
DERMOT—AIR XIV.
Dear Sir, this brown jug, that now foams with mildale,
Out of which I now drink to sweet Kate of the vale,
Was once Toby Philpot, a thirsty old soul,
As e'er crack'd a bottle, or fathom'd a bowl.
In boozing about, 'twas his praise to excel,
And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.
II.
It chanc'd in dog-days, as he sat at his ease,
In his flow'r-woven arbour, so gay as you please.
With a friend and a pipe puffing sorrow away,
And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay,
His breath doors of life on a sudden were shut,
And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.
III.
His body, when long in the ground it had lain,
And time, into clay, had dissolv'd it again;
A Potter found out in its covert so snug,
And with part of fat Toby he form'd this brown jug,
Now sacred to friendship, and mirth, and mild ale;
So here's to my lovely sweet Kate of the vale.
Exit.
Enter DARBY.
How do you do, Father Luke?
Go away, Darby, you're a rogue.
Will you consent that I shall marry Kathleen?
Is it you? you reprobate!
Do, and I'll give your reverence a sheep.
Oh, well, I always thought you were a boy that wou'd come to some good—a sheep!—you shall have Kathleen — but you have been very wicked.
Not I, Sir.
What, an't I your priest, and know what wickedness is? but repent it and marry.
I will marry and repent it.
Father LUKE
sings.
AIR XV.
You know I'm your priest, and your conscience is mine;
But if you grow wicked, it's not a good sign;
So leave off your raking, and marry a wife;
And then, my dear Darby, you're settled for life.
Sing Ballynamony, Oro,
A good merry wedding for me.
II.
The bans being publish'd, to chapel we go,
The bride and bridegroom in coats white as snow;
So modest her air, and so sheepish you look,
You out with your ring, and I pull out my book.
Sing, &c.
III.
I thumb out the place, and I then read away,
She blushes at love, and she whispers, obey.
You take her dear hand to have and to hold,
I shut up my book, and I pocket your gold.
Sing, &c.
The snug little guinea for me.
Enter KATHLEEN.
Is Dermot within Sir?
Don't think of him, child.—To her man, now, and put your best leg foremost.
(apart to Darby.)
I don't know which is my best leg.
Arrah go.
(kisses her.)
Oh how sweet her lips are! speak for me, Father Luke.
Hem! Kathleen, child!—
(apart to Darby.)
Is the sheep fat?
As fat as bacon, Sir.
Child! this boy will make you a good husband—now won't you, Darby?
Oh, the devil a better.
Indeed, Sir, I'll have no husband but Dermot.
(sings.)
AIR XVI.
—Tune—Foodle, Foddle.
Dermot prattles pretty chat,
Darby gapes like any oven,
Dermot's neat from shoe to hat,
Darby's but a dirty sloven.
Lout, Looby,
Silly Booby,
Come no more to me a courting.
Oh, was my dear,
My Dermot here,
With all his love and gay sporting.
II.
Dermot's teeth are white as egg,
Lips as sweet as sugar candy;
Then he has such a handsome leg,
Darby's is knocker-kneed and bandy.
Lout, Looby, &c.
III.
Dermot walks a comely pace,
Darby, like an ass, goes stumping;
Dermot dances with such grace,
Darby's dancing's only jumping.
Lout, Looby, &c.
I tell you, child, Dermot is an ugly man and a bad christian.
Enter DERMOT.
Dermot, you are a bad man and an ugly Christian.
Here, you Dermot.—Take your jug again; you empty fellow! I am going to marry Kathleen, and you must give her away, Sir.
Faith, I must have her first; and I came now for your consent.
Eh!—what!—you marry her!—No such thing—put it out of your head, and don't make a Judy of yourself.
Oh, if that's the case, the two fat sheep I intended to make you a present of, I'll drive to the fair to-morrow, and get drunk with the money.
Hay!—Two sheep!—come back here, Dermot; 'tis a great sin to get drunk, Sir—Darby, if you have nothing to do, get about your business.
going.
Sir!
Dermot, child!—Is it not this evening that I am to marry you to Kathleen?
No, Sir, 'tis me you are to marry to her.
You! you ordinary fellow!
Yes—and I am to give you—
(to Dermot.)
Two
sheep, is it!
Yes, Sir;
two
fine sheep.
Darby, you don't marry Kathleen.
No! arrah, why so?
Bekeys 'tis two to one against you—so get away, Darby.
Aye, aye, get away, Darby.
Children, I expect Captain Fitzroy at my house about my niece Norah, and I'll couple you all as soon as I get my thumb upon matrimony.
Quartetto sung.
AIR XVII.
—[Tune,
Pease upon a Trencher.
You the point may carry,
If awhile you tarry;
But for you,
I'll tell you true,
No, you I'll never marry.
Chorus.—You the point, &c.
Care our souls disowning,
Punch our sorrows drowning;
Laugh and love,
And ever prove,
Joys our wishes crowning.
Chorus.—Care our souls, &c.
To the church I'll hand her,
Then thro' the world I'll wander;
I'll sob and sigh,
Until I die,
A poor forsaken gander.
Chorus.—To the Church, &c.
Each pious priest, since Moses,
One mighty truth discloses;
You're never vext,
If this the text,
Go fuddle all your noses.
Chorus.—Each pious, &c.
Exeunt.
SCENE V,
An Elm Grove.
Enter the CAPTAIN
solus.
I wonder who this challenger can be; who comes here? I will step aside and watch.
Retires.
Enter DARBY and BAGATELLE.
Ah! Bag and Tail if I fall will you take my corpse (not a very ugly one) to Dermot's wedding—I will stand behind you thus.
(Putting Bagatelle in a parallel line before him)
I might as well stand behind a pitch fork.—I had rather stand behind a Dutch weaver than a French church-warden.
Zounds! here is my master!
Did you send a challenge to me, you rascal?
(Beats him.)
It was Lord Lofty's coachman wrote it.
I went to Father Luke's house—and there I got the letter—and so I went to Father Luke's house, and the letter was given to me—now I have it—and this is all I know about it. I did not go to school for nothing.
Get you gone.
[Exit Bagatelle.]
You had better stick to your spade than meddle with sword and pistol.
Exit Captain.
Hollo! Captain!
Re-enter CAPTAIN.
Now, Sir, I would wish to know whether you think me or Dermot the prettiest boy for it.
Exit.
Puppy!
Puppy!—You a Captain indeed!—Hollo, corporal!
Darby
turns round and beckons.
I find I must go up to town to learn to speak to this captain.
DARBY
sings.
DARBY.—AIR XVIII.
[Tune, I'll have a Wife of my own.]
Since Kathleen has prov'd so untrue,
Poor Darby! ah, what can you do?
No longer I'll stay here a clown,
But sell off, and gallop to town;
I'll dress, and I'll strut with an air,
The barber shall frizzle my hair.
II.
In town I shall cut a great dash;
But how for to compass the cash!
At gaming, perhaps, I may win;
With cards I may take the flats in,
Or trundle false dice, and they're nick'd:
If found out, I shall only be kick'd.
III.
But first for to get a great name,
A duel establish my fame;
To my man then a challenge I'll write;
But first, I'll be sure he won't fight.
We'll swear not to part till we fall,
Then shoot without powder, and the devil a ball.
Exit.
SCENE,
Father Luke's House.
Enter Father LUKE and NORAH.
If you do not consent to marry Captain Fitzroy, the man of my choice, I will send you to France, and put you in a convent.
I am well content. I never will marry the man that I do not approve of.
You are content! You put me in a passion,—and then you are content! Go, get you gone into that room, and there stay until you go to France, Mrs. Knapsack.
[Looks her up.]
Enter CAPTAIN.
Who is this that you are going to send to France?
My ward, Sir, who won't consent to marry you. She is robunxious.
Will you resign her to me, Sir?
With that key I deliver up my authority; and now if I find Mr. Patrick, her lover, I will send him to the county jail for a vagabond.—A jade! to lose the opportunity of making herself a lady.
[Exit.]
Enter PAT.
Here comes the soldier.
I came as I promised.
Was you ever brought to the halberts?— How came you absent from your regiment?—Have you a furlough?
No, Sir, not about me.
I have the honour to bear his majesty's commission; and I will have you taken up for a deserter, for the good of the service. I have a person here ready to take you into custody.
What a cruel piece of treachery!
[Goes into Norah's room, and having brought her out, says]
Dear Norah, since you have refused my hand, will you permit me to reward your constancy, by putting you into the hands of your lover?
I'm all amazement, my Patrick!
Let us kneel and thank our deliverer.
To keep you no longer in suspence, know then that I am that officer whose life you saved at Johnson's Ferry at Carolina, in America; I have a commission to bestow,
(Produces a commission.)
which I now desire, gallant youth, you will take from me as a reward for your honour, bravery and generosity.— I wanted to find you out.—Here, heaven bless you both.
(Joining Pat and Norah's Hands.)
I could scarcely think you would remember your poor Soldier—but my gratitude is too great for utterance.
Enter Father LUKE, DARBY, DERMOT, and KATHLEEN.
Oh! here he is, Darby, lay hold of him.
Not I—I am no constable.
Then the serjeant shall lay hold of him.
O, don't you see the white serjeant has hold of him already?
What brings you with that fellow
Come, Sir, don't abuse the man you'll shortly make your nephew.
Me bring a foot soldier into my family!
He's no longer so, Sir, I having a commission to dispose of, have given it to him.
An officer! Oh! that alters the case entirely.
Pat an officer!—Upon my soul, I'll list tomorrow morning in spight of the black patch.
Dear Norah, I wish you joy.
Hold your tongue, and don't make so free with a captain's lady.
But captain, why do you give up my niece?
Because Sir, I have found such superior merit in this POOR SOLDIER.
FINALE.
AIR XIX.
[Tune, Planxty Connor.]
What true felicity I shall find,
When those are join'd;
By fortune kind.
How pleasing to me,
So happy to see,
Such merit and virtue rewarded.
No future sorrows can grieve us,
If you will please to forgive us;
To each kind friend,
Thus lowly we'll bend,
Your pardon—with joy, we're delighted,
Chorus—No future sorrows, &c.
With my commission, yet dearest life,
My charming wife,
When drum and fife,
Shall beat up to arms,
To plunder your charms;
In love, your poor soldier you'll find me!
Thus Love my wishes has granted,
I get the dear lad that I wanted;
Less pleas'd with a duke,
When good Father Luke,
To my own little Dermot has join'd me.
Chorus.—This love, &c.
You impudent hussey, a pretty rake!
Of love you prate;
But hark ye, Kate,
Your dear little lad,
Will find that his pad
Has got a nice—kick in her gallop.
Now Darby, upon my salvation,
You merit excommunication;
In love but agree,
And shortly you'll see,
In marriage I'll soon tie you all up.
Chorus.—Now Darby, &c.
The devil a bit one cares a bean,
For neat and clean;
We'll both be seen,
Myself and my lass,
Next Monday, at mass,
And there we'll be coupled for ever.
The laurel I've won in the field, Sirs,
Yet now, in a garden, I yield, Sirs;
Nor think it a shame,
Your mercy to claim,
Your mercy's my sword and my shield, Sirs;
The laurel and bays,
Revive by your praise;
The poet solicits your pardon;
Then be not severe,
With smiles you can cheer,
The posies of your Covent-Garden.
CHORUS.
The laurel and bays,
Revive by your praise, &c.
FINIS.