Melodies, duets, trios, songs, and ballads, pastoral, amatory, sentimental, patriotic, religious, and miscellaneous Together with metrical epistles, tales and recitations |
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EPILOGUE,
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 | Melodies, duets, trios, songs, and ballads, pastoral, amatory, sentimental, patriotic, religious, and miscellaneous |  |
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EPILOGUE,
To the Native Drama of “Narrah Mattah.” Spoken by Mrs. Sharpe, in the character of Narrah Mattah.
The curtain's down—and while they're all behindDoffing their pilgrim dresses—I've a mind
At the gay modern world to have one peep,
And just say “how d'ye do?” before I sleep.
(Looks round the boxes.)
But how is this?—am I to understand
That these are the descendants of that band
Of pious plain-clad pilgrims, who came o'er
To seek for freedom on this western shore?
Why—where's the plain mob cap? the russet gown?
The puritanic coat? the close-cropt crown?
Where's all that neat simplicity of dress
Which marked the puritans? Egad! I guess
I wan't alone—more of them must have wed
With native chiefs, and mingled white and red;
Else why this taste for feathers, beads, and shells,
In their descendants? Why do modern belles
Paint their sweet faces, and from either ear
Suspend those sparkling trinkets? And then here,
(touching her own arm.)
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In those huge silken bags that hide their arms.
O there's red blood in some of your blue veins,
And so there is in yours, ye dapper swains,
Or what's the meaning of those dandy chains
Extending from your bosoms to your pockets?
I wonder if you modern beaux wear lockets!
Nay, hope not to escape me—you will fail,
(laughing
These treacherous square-toes, I shall know your trail.
(Looks at the second tier.)
I see you there, but I won't tell your name,
He with the whiskers—yes—that's he—the same;
A mighty chief of some great tribe, no doubt,
You need not tell me—I shall make it out:
Yes, yes—I see—it plainly now appears,
Those artificial whiskers hide long ears!
But he with that blue blanket on one shoulder,
And feathered lip, must be a chief still bolder;
Perhaps a sachem, sagamore, or scribe,
O, I perceive, he's of the cockney tribe.
(Looks at the third tier.)
And feathered lip, must be a chief still bolder;
Perhaps a sachem, sagamore, or scribe,
O, I perceive, he's of the cockney tribe.
But what is that thing?—yonder—up above?
He with the eye-glass? There! he's dropt his glove;
What tribe claims him—or it—that taper shape?
I've strong suspicions it must be the ape!
He with the eye-glass? There! he's dropt his glove;
What tribe claims him—or it—that taper shape?
I've strong suspicions it must be the ape!
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For I've a word with you before I go.
Yes, do smile! In mercy don't look grave,
For 'tis your tribe must either damn or save
The little bantling just gone off the stage.
Forget its faults, but not its tender age.
What if it be a little rude and wild,
Remember that a parent loves his child:
And I'll be sworn he's somewhere here to-night,
With feelings none can know but they who write.
So be good-natured, now, ye critic tribe;
Nay, do not frown—can I not name some bribe?
Yes, here it goes—don't let the new play fall,
And Narrah Mattah vows to kiss you all.
[Great applause.
'Tis safe!—'tis safe!—your generous hands decide it.
There—take a kiss among you, and divide it.
[Kisses her hand, and exit.
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