 | Doctor Bolus |  |
SCENE IV.
A Tent—Scaramoucho discovered asleep—A Ghost rises up, and sings.
Hey Scaramoucho! ho Scaramoucho!
The trumpets they sound and the cannons they rattle;
With a hey-day-diddle, the drum and the fiddle,
The King and his Courtiers are coming to battle.
[Ghost sinks.
The trumpets they sound and the cannons they rattle;
With a hey-day-diddle, the drum and the fiddle,
The King and his Courtiers are coming to battle.
13
(In his sleep.)
Charge, ev'ry mother's son! confound the laggers!
Bring me another horse! mine's got the staggers!
There scampers off the King!—my bow and arrow;
I've wing'd him—down he tumbles like a sparrow!
Enter Dillydundos.
Dilly.
There lies our Gen'ral sleeping—devil take him!
I just will take the liberty to wake him.
[Tweaks his nose.
Scara.
I'm wounded! mercy, ye inhuman crew!
[Starting.
Ha, little Dillydundos! is it you?
Dilly.
Gen'ral, our forces have been waiting long,
We've muster'd more than five-and-twenty strong;
They're all prepar'd for battle, arm'd in mail.
Scara.
Ere they begin, let half a pint of ale
To each be given, with a mess of porridge,
To warm their honest hearts and stir their courage.
Now to your post—my soul their zeal partakes,
And I'll be with you in a brace of shakes.
[Exit Dillydundos.
With doubt and fear my heart begins to knock,
The Queen was to be here at two o'clock;
How dreadful is the thought of fire and slaughter!
Fly swift, ye minutes—still it wants a quarter—
[looks at his watch.
'Twixt love and vengeance my poor brains are addled—
I'm out of sorts to-day—Is Dobbin saddled?
How hard my fate to lose the best of matches
By this confounded King of Shreds and Patches!
AIR.—Scaramoucho.
(Tune—“Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled.”)
Slave! when you my Squadrons spy,
You'll have other fish to fry,
Making love is all my eye
Till the battle's done.
You'll have other fish to fry,
Making love is all my eye
Till the battle's done.
When hot cannon-balls assail,
Whizzing round your sconce like hail,
You will tell another tale!
Ah, you'll cut and run!
Whizzing round your sconce like hail,
You will tell another tale!
Ah, you'll cut and run!
14
Rage within my bosom stirs,
By my whiskers, boots and spurs!
Regimental coat of furs!
And this martial frown.
By my whiskers, boots and spurs!
Regimental coat of furs!
And this martial frown.
By my Charmer's peepers bright,
Should I in th' approaching fight
Catch this monarch—blow me tight!
But I'll crack his crown!
Should I in th' approaching fight
Catch this monarch—blow me tight!
But I'll crack his crown!
[Exit.
| Doctor Bolus | |