Songs, duets, trios, choruses &c. &c. in Actors al fresco; or, The play in the pleasure grounds; (an occasional vaudeville,) first produced at the Royal Gardens, Vauxhall, 4th June, 1827. Written by W. T. Moncrieff |
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 | Songs, duets, trios, choruses |  |
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OPENING CHORUS.—Villagers.
[Sir Udolpho, thy praise, in our lays, we still raise]
Sir Udolpho, thy praise, in our lays, we still raise,
to sweet melody.
So great are thy taste and thy grace,
Which, while there's a trace, Time ne'er can efface!
Thy rich fancies, songs, dances, entrance us,
and make life one jolly day.
Hail glory and pride of the place!
Tol de rol, tol de rol, &c.
to sweet melody.
So great are thy taste and thy grace,
Which, while there's a trace, Time ne'er can efface!
Thy rich fancies, songs, dances, entrance us,
and make life one jolly day.
Hail glory and pride of the place!
Tol de rol, tol de rol, &c.
From the River Thames to the Atlantic,
Renown'd is thy genius romantic;
And thy name shall to far distant times
Live in Jeremy Crambo's sweet rhymes.
Tol de rol, &c.
Renown'd is thy genius romantic;
And thy name shall to far distant times
Live in Jeremy Crambo's sweet rhymes.
Tol de rol, &c.
SONG.—Sir Udolpho.
[Come, and I will shew the way]
Come, and I will shew the wayHow your grace you may display
On the light, fantastic toe:
This the caper is—just so.
Trip it, skip it, full of glee;
Follow! follow! Follow me!
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SONG.—Sir Udolpho.
[With an air]
With an air,Debonaire,
I instruct the bumpkins:
Thomas, John, and Dolly,
Betty, Peg, and Molly,
Higgs, and Snell, and Tompkins.
BEAUTY WAS A LITTLE GIRL.
SONG.—Miss Frances.
Beauty was a little girl,—
Heigho! heigho!
Pure and lovely as a pearl,—
Heigho! heigho!
She mov'd so meek, and look'd so shy,
None, then, saw mischief in her eye,
Nor dream'd that youths for her would die,—
Heigho! heigho!
Heigho! heigho!
Pure and lovely as a pearl,—
Heigho! heigho!
She mov'd so meek, and look'd so shy,
None, then, saw mischief in her eye,
Nor dream'd that youths for her would die,—
Heigho! heigho!
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Beauty's now a woman grown,—
Heigho! heigho!
Looking like a rose full-blown,—
Heigho! heigho!
Weaving still for hearts a snare,
She seems to cry, with saucy air,
Come, and kiss me,—if you dare,—
Heigho! heigho!
Heigho! heigho!
Looking like a rose full-blown,—
Heigho! heigho!
Weaving still for hearts a snare,
She seems to cry, with saucy air,
Come, and kiss me,—if you dare,—
Heigho! heigho!
Beauty now will soon grow old,—
Heigho! heigho!
In the old maids' list enroll'd,—
Heigho! heigho!
Swains no longer, then, will sue:
What will, then, poor Beauty do?
I'm sure I cannot tell,—Can you?—
Heigho! heigho!
Heigho! heigho!
In the old maids' list enroll'd,—
Heigho! heigho!
Swains no longer, then, will sue:
What will, then, poor Beauty do?
I'm sure I cannot tell,—Can you?—
Heigho! heigho!
LOVE'S HERMIT.
RONDEAU.—Orlando.
Love's Hermit, I dwell in this solitude lone,Dear Beauty's sweet image, the saint of my vows;
Night and morn, sighs and tears my devotion make known,
My hopes still that she my fond cause will espouse.
Hymen's altar the shrine, where my pray'rs I would raise,
In sonnets my orisons daily I sigh;
My tears, the fond beads I still tell to her praise;
Her arms the blest heaven for which I would die.
And vainly does reason my worship reprove,
There's no rest but with Beauty, for Hermits of Love.
Love's Hermit, &c.
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THE MAGIC EYES OF LOVE!
RONDEAU.—Miss Frances.
Ah! let me still, where'er I rove,Look through the magic eyes of love,
Then place me on some desert drear,
And I shall deem I walk on flowers.
Shall think those seraph strains I hear,
Which greet the soul in heaven's bowers,
Then through o'er burning sands I stray,
They will seem sands of gold to me;
And though no waters there may play,
I'll think some cooling stream I see:
But let me still, where'er I rove,
Look through the magic eyes of love.
SONG.—Signor O'Diddle.
[Oh! 'tis I have been to the Groves of Blarney]
Oh! 'tis I have been to the Groves of Blarney,The Hill of Houth, too, and the Phœnix Park;
The Giants' Causeway, and Lake of Killarney,
For in Ireland everything is exceedingly well worth remark.
No toads nor vipers are in any county,
So no toad-eaters there can stay:
But whiskey and praties, through St. Patrick's bounty,
And it's I am sorry that I'm away.
Holy, oh Goly, &c.
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THE MINUET.
SONG.—Sir Udolpho.
Beauty, whose form enchanting
Leaves no perfection wanting,
Her hand with gladness granting,
The minuet walks with me.
My toe so lightly pointing,
Such grace my every joint in,
With bliss her hopes annointing,
She melts with ecstacy.
Leaves no perfection wanting,
Her hand with gladness granting,
The minuet walks with me.
My toe so lightly pointing,
Such grace my every joint in,
With bliss her hopes annointing,
She melts with ecstacy.
Rosa, Matilda, Fanny,
I ne'er was scorn'd by any,
Though I have danc'd with many,
For partner each takes me.
Such graceful capers cutting,
Such curves my form I put in,
The mouth of envy shutting,
They melt with ecstacy.
I ne'er was scorn'd by any,
Though I have danc'd with many,
For partner each takes me.
Such graceful capers cutting,
Such curves my form I put in,
The mouth of envy shutting,
They melt with ecstacy.
THE GAVOTTE.
SONG.—Signor O'Diddle.
Hop, skip, jump,
So very merry, hey down derry;
Young hearts thump,
To tie the nuptial knot.
Then gladly prancing,
I cut to measures cheery,
Still lightly dancing
The gay gavotte.
Very merry, brisk as perry,
Hop, skip, jump.
So very merry, hey down derry;
Young hearts thump,
To tie the nuptial knot.
Then gladly prancing,
I cut to measures cheery,
Still lightly dancing
The gay gavotte.
Very merry, brisk as perry,
Hop, skip, jump.
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Hop, skip, jump,
Till we are very red as cherry,
Bumpkins stump,
Like Vestris and what not.
At lasses glancing,
From County Kerry, brown as berry,
Their love advancing,
In the gay gavotte.
Very merry, hey down derry,
Hop, skip, jump.
Till we are very red as cherry,
Bumpkins stump,
Like Vestris and what not.
At lasses glancing,
From County Kerry, brown as berry,
Their love advancing,
In the gay gavotte.
Very merry, hey down derry,
Hop, skip, jump.
DUET.—Signor O'Diddle & Sir Udolpho.
[Sweet lays they'll raise in praise of Sir Udolpho]
Signor O'Diddle.Sweet lays they'll raise in praise of Sir Udolpho,
To grace and taste, who ne'er yet was at all foe.
Sir Udolpho.
And to Signor O'Diddle,
Who'll go down the middle
To sound of the fiddle,
And pleasantly sidle
In elegance idle,
With zeal none can bridle,
Adown the dance.
Ambo.
Yes, merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
Cheerily, cheerily, merrily, merrily,
Dance, merrily dance, merrily dance, cheerily prance;
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Trippingly, skippingly, merrily, cheerily,
Grace the dance!
Sweet lays, &c.
GRETNA GREEN.
BALLAD.—Orlando.
Young Beauty with Gallantry fain would have wed,
But Avarice, her guardian, said “nay;”
So to Cupid, who there a postillion's life led,
They applied just to shew them the way:
Said he, I a friend have, who lives in the north,
A blacksmith, 'tis Hymen I mean,
He'll unite you—I'll take you: in haste they set forth,
And with Love safely reach'd Gretna Green.
But Avarice, her guardian, said “nay;”
So to Cupid, who there a postillion's life led,
They applied just to shew them the way:
Said he, I a friend have, who lives in the north,
A blacksmith, 'tis Hymen I mean,
He'll unite you—I'll take you: in haste they set forth,
And with Love safely reach'd Gretna Green.
Forging conjugal yokes, there, soon Hymen they found,
Store of gold he, to link them, required;
They gave it, and fast in his fetters were bound,
When love drove them back and retir'd.
Left alone, they grew weary; to part then they sought,
Wondering what Love, by going, could mean.
But, ah! stead of gold, they found Hymen had wrought
Iron chains for them at Gretna Green.
Store of gold he, to link them, required;
They gave it, and fast in his fetters were bound,
When love drove them back and retir'd.
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Wondering what Love, by going, could mean.
But, ah! stead of gold, they found Hymen had wrought
Iron chains for them at Gretna Green.
LOVE SOUNDS TO ARMS.
SONG.—Sally.
Young maids beware, Love's in the field,
To conquer Beauty, all he'll dare;
Truth is his sword, and faith his shield,
His motto—never to despair.
He'll oaths and vows in volleys fire,
And let his darts in glances fly;
Beware then, maids, in time retire,
For he will conquer, or he'll die.
Love sounds to arms;
And to your cost you soon will prove,
There is no force can conquer Love.
To conquer Beauty, all he'll dare;
Truth is his sword, and faith his shield,
His motto—never to despair.
He'll oaths and vows in volleys fire,
And let his darts in glances fly;
Beware then, maids, in time retire,
For he will conquer, or he'll die.
Love sounds to arms;
And to your cost you soon will prove,
There is no force can conquer Love.
To aid his cause, he'll slily bring,
Best sentinels, his jealous eyes;
And in your hearts a mine he'll spring,
His sure artillery, tears and sighs.
He'll with rope ladders scale your bowers,
For if repulsed, he's wings to fly;
He'll storm your hearts, and such his powers,
That he will conquer, or he'll die.
Love sounds to arms, &c.
Best sentinels, his jealous eyes;
And in your hearts a mine he'll spring,
His sure artillery, tears and sighs.
He'll with rope ladders scale your bowers,
For if repulsed, he's wings to fly;
He'll storm your hearts, and such his powers,
That he will conquer, or he'll die.
Love sounds to arms, &c.
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CHORUS OF VILLAGERS.
[Triumphal wreaths we weave for thee]
Triumphal wreaths we weave for thee,In whom our hope reposes;
Thy joyful vassals, ever we
Will strew thy path with roses.
Hail, all hail! thy name shall Fame proclaim,
Thy wit the keenest poses,
Each hour thy worth discloses.
THE FRICASSEE.
DUET.—Miss Frances and Sally.
From dear Switzerland, our home,
In search of wealth we roam,
Then frown not when we come,
Two orphan Savoyards, to cheer you, singing.
Blithe hearts and light heels,
Who more content can be;
Our mirth your care steals,
In the merry fricassee.—
(Dance.)
In search of wealth we roam,
Then frown not when we come,
Two orphan Savoyards, to cheer you, singing.
Blithe hearts and light heels,
Who more content can be;
Our mirth your care steals,
In the merry fricassee.—
Oh! do not bid us roam,
To wander still our doom,
For all of us there's room,
Then list us Savoyards—our sweet songs singing.
With blithe heels and light hearts,
Your gold you'll render free,
As our mirth still mirth imparts,
In the merry fricassee.—
(Dance.)
To wander still our doom,
For all of us there's room,
Then list us Savoyards—our sweet songs singing.
With blithe heels and light hearts,
Your gold you'll render free,
As our mirth still mirth imparts,
In the merry fricassee.—
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FINALE.—Omnes.
[Now all is past]
Now all is past,That late o'ercast,
And love and concord's reigning;
Each doubt is o'er,
And we, once more,
In joy and peace can rove.
If you but smile
On our fond toil,
No richer meed e'er gaining,
All will be bliss—
Who joy can miss,
When wrapp'd in rest and love.
FINIS.
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