With a deep hole in his heart, you might through it drive a cart, All to fill up this farcical scene, O. Beauty spurns him, passion burns him, like a wizard eats his gizzard Spoken.]-Oh, my most adorable Amelia, had I words sufficiently strong to express my admiration of your beauty, you would at once believe me your devoted lover, and complete my bliss by flying to his arms who must for ever pine for the possession of that angelic form. Hey down, &c. Then the soldier, ripe for plunder, breathing slaughter, blood and thunder, Talks of naught but streaming veins, shattered limbs, and scattered brains, Spoken.1-Aye, I shall never forget the last battle I was in, such marching and countermarching, up the hill and down the hill, right and left, flank and rear. Bless your heart, I have fought up to my knees in blood; and at the very last battle I fought in, I had six horses shot under me-saw my comrades mown down like hay; and just as a twenty-four-pounder was coming towards me, I drew my broad-sword, cut it right in two, one half went up in the air, and the other half went Hey down, &c. Then the justice in his chair, with his broad and vacant stare; Well lined with turtle hash, callipee and callipash, All to fill up this farcical scene, O. Bawd and trull, pimp and cull, at his nod go to quod. Spoken.]-Now, sirrah, what's your name?' 'John.' 'John what?' No, sir, not John What-John Thomas.' 'Well, John Thomas, what right had you to take liberties with that girl?' 'I didn't take liberties with her; but I think she takes a great liberty with me, when she swears a child to me.' 'You must father it, sirrah.' 'I wont let her father it herself.' 'What do you mean, sirrah, if you are saucy here, you must go Hey down, &c. Then the slipper'd pantaloon, in life's dull afternoon, Vigour spent, body bent, shaking noddle, weddle waddle.— Spoken.]-Aye, times are alter'd now, old folks are laughed at, and boys are respected. Oh, dear me, how my cough annoys Ho! Ho! Ho! ha! me. Hey down, &c. Then to finish up the play, second childhood leads the way, When the coffin we move off in, while the bell tolls the knell. Spoken.]-Aye, thus the scene finishes; then while we are here, why shouldn't we enjoy life? and how can we do better than assemble as we have done here, enjoy a good song, and endeavour to make others happy by singing Hey down, &c. BILL'S BIRTH DAY. TUNE---The Tank, SUCH fun! each one All the day keep laughing on; Never was on any cause A company so gay. Cakes fine-good wine, Kept the guests all quaffing on; The whole brood in merry mood On Bill's birth-day. Uncles, aunts, and cousins, Tumbled in in dozens; The he's drest in their best, The she's in fine array; Ev'ry crony, lean or bony, On Bill's birth-day. Such fun, each one All the day kept laughing on; No care was there On Bill's birth-day. Spoken.]-Mr. Pucker, how d'ye do? Mrs. Pucker, how are you? where are all the little Puckers? Thankee, Mr. Spriggs, they are all running up behind.-Here they come. Miss Puck er, how do you do? Commong voo potty voo, Mooseer. That's the French for very well thankee, sir: her schoolmaster says she must always speak French; and so I always make her, al though I do not understand a word she says. Here comes Mrs. Heavysides, how d'ye do? sit down, just in pudding time. Pudding time, pie time, oh crikey, carry me out? Mrs. Heavysides has sit squash in the giblet pie. Dear me, I'm afraid I've spoilt it. Never mind it, it will do for the servants' dinner. Now, ladies and gentlemen, take your seats; I'm glad to see you here on this auspicious occasion; you see I have all my young ones at the table to-day, I allow it in order that they may learn good manners. How is your youngest girl? Near two years, and a very forward child she is for her age; Eliza, tell the ladies and gemmen what e have for dinny. (Child.) A donkey. Bless her, she means a turkey. O, I likes turkey! Be quiet, Bill. Molly, you shouldn't have put that goose before Mr. Stitchett, he's a tailor, nor that cabbage before Miss Pucker, she's a dress-maker: take that tongue from your mistress, and bring it down here to Miss Dumbcake, and then place the sirloin before me, I'm determined to rule the roast to-day. O, I likes roast beef. Be quiet, Bill. Mr. Broker, will you carve that turkey? Really, sir, beg to be excused, I've lately sprained my wrist. Indeed, I'm sorry for it. Mr. Scroggins, may I trouble you? Really, you must excuse me, I've lately sprained my ancle. O, come try, sir, I'll lend you a hand. Will you? Yes, here it is, a hand of pork. Oh, I likes pork. Be quiet, Bill. Here my boys, I'll carve something. Will you, then perhaps you will carve the turkey? No, no, I'll carve the soup. O, I likes soup. Be quiet, Bill. What soup is this? Mock turtle. Mock turtle! you mean stewed hair; here's a long one! That's a ooman's, I know. Halloh! what's this? Oh, crikey, that's mother's wig! Be quiet, Bill. My goodness! I've been hunting all over the house after that front; and that careless girl to put it in the soup. Poor girl, perhaps she did it to give it a flavour. It was re-curled yesterday, and now it is of no use. Oh, yes, send it down for the servants' dinner. Aye, on account of this being your heir's birth-day. (Aside.) Drop the wig, you'll find something else presently. O, Mrs. Snigs, you shouldn't suffer your nursery-maid to go into the kitchen. Why, what's the matter now? Look here, she's left the child's red morocco shoe in the apple-sauce. Oh, careless_girl. (showing the shoe.) Who's for a bit of upper leather and apple-sauce? Sarve it up, I'm so hungry, I could eat any thing. Give me a bit of the sole. Lauk! how pretty that child sits at table, she's quite a little lady! Oh, wery like a lady! see, she's making a washhand basin of my soup-plate. Miss Pucker, have I helped you to what you like? We, mooseer, tray bun. O, I likes buns. Be quiet, Bill. Mr. Sniggle, you don't seem in a comfortable way. No, I'm in a lamentable way, your little girl don't like the soup, so she is putting it all in my pocket; oh, what shall I do with it? Oh, send it down for the servants' dinner. Oh, carry me out, carry me out! here's Shortsight swallowed the mustard instead of a custard. Such fun, each one, &c. When dined, all kind Of fruit upon the table was, With red wine and white wine, Spirits and punch; The boys eat the fruit As long as each one able was, Their chops and the apples went Crunch, crunch, crunch. Tea and supper came Ere dinner was digested, Time pass'd quickly And pleasantly away; At last ev'ry dame To have a dance requested, To finish with a hop Young Bill's birth-day. Such fun, each one All the day kept laughing on, On Bill's birth-day. Spoken.]-Oh, dear, Mrs. Coldheart, there was such an accident happened before our house this morning. Lauk! Yes, a poor man, crossing the road, was knocked down into a heap of mud. Lauk, he must have felt very uncomfortable. Yes, and a wheel of a coal-waggon went right over his thigh. Lauk, did it hurt him? He was taken to the hospital, where his leg was immediately cut off. Lauk, that must have been very unpleasant. Shocking. Beautiful, I never saw any thing so delightful in my life. What d'ye mean? Why the lace on your cap. All the time you've been speaking I've been admiring it; how much might you have given per yard? Why, Mrs. Coldheart, my wife might have given more than she did for the lace on her cap, if she liked; for it's capital lace, and she's a capital woman, makes a capital wife, and I like her to have every thing capital about her. Egad, you're a capital husband! Oh, I'm not one of your shilly shallies, numby pumbies; I like my wife to look as well as she can. Silence, Master Bill is going to open the ball with a speech from the play. O, I likes play. Be quiet, Bill, and begin. 'Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by the son of York.' Son of York, my dear, who's he? I don't know mother; and all the clouds which lower'd upon our houses in the deep bosom of the ocean buried.' O, don't say that stupid thing; who ever heard of a ocean having a bosom. Well then I'll say the cloudy captain towers, the gorging palaces, the solomon temples.' Be quiet, Bill ! your temples will never belong to a Solomon. Solomon, here's Burymecomfortable, the undertaker, he's a good solo-man; Burymecomfortable, sing a song, will you? I can't, I've such a coughing in my throat. O, carry me out, here's a undertaker with a coffin in his throat, carry me out. I wish you wouldn't be kicking out, you'll kick all the skin off my legs; see here's a hole in my stocking already. Change places, then carry me out will have more room. Now, Mr. Burymecomfortable, try a song. The fact is, I musn't, my wife don't like it. Don't like it! then your wife is not a capital wife; see how my wife makes me sing out when I'm at home. Lord, my wife says an undertaker ought always to be a mute. No man should be a mute to his own wife, unless she's a capital wife, why don't you put her in one of your own coffins. I couldn't, for she's a woman capable of making any man happy. Is she? then after all she's a capital woman, so here's to her health. Come, Burymecomfortable, we can't let you off. Well, if I must, I must; so here goes. Gentlemen, the ladies are sorry to interrupt harmony, but they hope you'll have a dance. O, I likes a dance. Be quiet, Bill. Where's Bullock? he plays the fiddle. Here am I. Where's your instrument? Here it is. Tune up. What tune? Any tune. Now we're off. O, carry me out, look at Mother Lollopolong, she dances like a dray horse on a frozen road. Like skating, father, he! he! Be quiet, Bill. Holloh, what's that? O, carry me out, Mrs. Heavyside's fallen spank through the wainscot; look at her legs pointing like tower guns. Aye, they're regular forty-pounders. Help her out. There, ma'am, I hope you're not hurt. No, not at all; but I'm afraid I've hurt somebody in the next house. I hope you are not hurt, sir? (Voice from the next house,) No, not much hurt, but very uncomfortable, for the lady's upset a jug of cold water all over my bed-clothes. I'm sorry for it. Never mind; but I hope the next time you have a party, you'll build a party wall. O, carry me out, there's Master Bill run away with Bullock's fiddle. Oh, the little rascal, I hope he won't get into a scrape. Never mind, he can't play. Can't he though. Why, what can he play? Tricks. What, Master Bullock, have you lost your fidde? And has Mr. Bullock really lost his instrument? indeed, |