 | The Seven Champions of Christendom |  |
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ACT II.
Scene First.
—Egyptian ruins in the Valley of the Nile—Egyptian Herdsmen and Peasantry discovered.Chorus
—Music by Rodwell.
Ul! ul! ul! our hearts are full
Of grief this fine May morning.
The Dragon's got a prize, this lot
Poor people's daughters scorning.
Ul! ul! ul! that Fate should cull
The flower of Egypt's fair, O!
A precious row the Sultan now
Will kick up in Grand Cairo!
Enter Charley Wag.
Char.
Your pardon, good ladies and gentlemen all,
May I ask why so loudly you keep up the bawl?
I'm a stranger, you see, just arrived—not a native,
So I beg you'll be candid and communicative.
Herd.
Why, where could you drop from, I should like to know?
If you yet have to learn the sad cause of our woe;
Did you never hear tell of the terrible Dragon,
Whom no mortal ever as yet put the gag on?
For many long years the detestable glutton,
Out of flocks of our sheep took his large chops of mutton!
Then pounced on our shepherds, till scarce you'd a man see,
And now to our maidens he's taken a fancy;
And thinks nothing, forsooth, worthy his mastication,
But the daintiest fair he can find in the nation.
Char.
I'm astonished—not at your alarm, or your haste,
But to think that a dragon should have such good taste!
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I should certainly preference give to the ladies;
But can't you find some one, for love or for cash,
Who could manage to settle this epicure's hash?
Herd.
Not a soul—so by lots the poor lasses grow thinner,
For a damsel, per diem, he has for his dinner;
And what now increases the nation's distress,
The lot has to-day fallen on the Princess,
Fair Sabra, the Sultan's sole darling and jewel—
Char.
Delighted to hear it
(all express surprise)
Don't fancy me cruel!
For her Highness, believe me, I'm truly concerned,
But the way of the world, by experience I've learned,
This plague might have fasten'd your poor human kind on,
And maidens have murmured, but still have been dined on;
But now the shoe pinches the Sultan's own poppet,
Depend on it, means will be soon found to stop it.
Herd.
But the Sultan himself of the Dragon's in fear—
Char.
Well! I'm happy to say that I know some one here,
Who has no dread of any monstrosity living,
And will soon put an end to this shocking misgiving.
Herd.
Your name, sir, pray permit me to inquire—
Char.
Your humble servant, Charley Wag, Esquire.
Air—Charley Wag—“A master I have.”
A master I have, and I am his man,
Galloping fearing none;
A master I have, and I am his man,
Galloping, &c.
To put down the Dragon he'll hit on a plan,
And tickle his toby if any one can,
With a scaly, maily, taily, gaily,
Spiry, fiery, wingery, springery,
Gobbling greedy one.
Galloping fearing none;
A master I have, and I am his man,
Galloping, &c.
To put down the Dragon he'll hit on a plan,
And tickle his toby if any one can,
With a scaly, maily, taily, gaily,
Spiry, fiery, wingery, springery,
Gobbling greedy one.
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From England we came, by the overland mail,
Waghorny quickly done;
From England we came, by the overland mail,
Waghorny, &c.
Where the sign of a dragon turns nobody pale,
But simply inspires a thought of pale ale,
With its wisky, frisky, worky, jerky,
Hoppery, poppery, spittery, bittery,
Frolicking frothy fun.
Waghorny quickly done;
From England we came, by the overland mail,
Waghorny, &c.
Where the sign of a dragon turns nobody pale,
But simply inspires a thought of pale ale,
With its wisky, frisky, worky, jerky,
Hoppery, poppery, spittery, bittery,
Frolicking frothy fun.
But St. George is the foe of oppression and guile,
Galloping fearing none;
But St. George is the foe of oppression and guile,
Galloping, &c.
His name alone gives them a fit of the bile,
And his cannon before has been heard on the Nile,
With a haily, saily, navy, gaily,
Battering, shattering, sticking 'em, licking 'em,
Gallant and glorious one!
Galloping fearing none;
But St. George is the foe of oppression and guile,
Galloping, &c.
His name alone gives them a fit of the bile,
And his cannon before has been heard on the Nile,
With a haily, saily, navy, gaily,
Battering, shattering, sticking 'em, licking 'em,
Gallant and glorious one!
So “cheer up, my boys, 'tis to glory we steer,”
Going it, dingery dong:
“To add something more to this wonderful year.”
Stop! hang it—I've somehow got wrong.
Those are not the right words, I'm sure, to this air;
But they mean what I mean, so perhaps you won't care,
In a jingling, chiming, crambo, rhyming,
Pattery, clattery, what can it mattery,
Charley Wag sort of a song.
Going it, dingery dong:
“To add something more to this wonderful year.”
Stop! hang it—I've somehow got wrong.
Those are not the right words, I'm sure, to this air;
But they mean what I mean, so perhaps you won't care,
In a jingling, chiming, crambo, rhyming,
Pattery, clattery, what can it mattery,
Charley Wag sort of a song.
Herd.
Haste with these hopes to chase the Sultan's blues!
(Herdsmen exeunt)
Char.
Here comes St. George!
Enter St. George.
St. Geo.
Well, Charley, what's your news?
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Sir, there's a job for you, just in your way,—
A beauty to assist, a beast to slay.
St. Geo.
I mean to do it—I have heard the tidings,
And hope to give the soundest of all hidings
To this vile Dragon, to whose breath pestiferous,
The Serpentine compared is odoriferous!
Char.
The victim shortly to her fate they lead on.
She's much too nice for such a brute to feed on.
St. Geo.
The tempting morsel from his jaws I'll snatch,
Out of his wicked will himself I'll scratch!
Go, for the Dragon keep a look-out bright,
And let me know the moment he's in sight!
In the meanwhile, fair Sabra I will talk with.
(Exit)
Char.
And off, no doubt, eventually walk with.
We'll pack off to London the Dragon when stuff'd
He'll make as good gape seed as ever was puff'd,
And more worth a shilling to see than one half
Of the sights which they gull with poor Johnny Bull-calf.
We'll pack off to London the Dragon when stuff'd
He'll make as good gape seed as ever was puff'd,
And more worth a shilling to see than one half
Of the sights which they gull with poor Johnny Bull-calf.
Air—Charley Wag—“O such a day.”
O such a town, such a wonderful metropolis,
With mysteries and miracles all London teems;
Humbug has there got the snuggest of monopolies,
Everything is anything but what it seems.
You sleep upon an iron bed and fancy it a feather one,
You think your ceiling carved in oak—why, bless you, it's a leather one;
Your marble mantelpiece turns out of slate, if you're a scrubber, sir,
And paving stones are made of wood, or else of india-rubber, sir.
O, such a town, &c.
With mysteries and miracles all London teems;
Humbug has there got the snuggest of monopolies,
Everything is anything but what it seems.
You sleep upon an iron bed and fancy it a feather one,
You think your ceiling carved in oak—why, bless you, it's a leather one;
Your marble mantelpiece turns out of slate, if you're a scrubber, sir,
And paving stones are made of wood, or else of india-rubber, sir.
O, such a town, &c.
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O such a town, such a classical metropolis,
Tradesmen common English scorn to write or speak;
Bond Street's a forum—Cornhill is an acropolis,
For everything's in Latin now but what's in Greek.
Here is a Pantechnicon, and there is an Emporium,
Your shoes are “antigropelos,” your boots of “pannuscorium;”
“Fumi-porte chimney-pots,” “Eureka shirts” to cover throats,
“Idrotobolic hats,” and patent “Aqua-scutum over-coats.”
O such a town, &c.
Tradesmen common English scorn to write or speak;
Bond Street's a forum—Cornhill is an acropolis,
For everything's in Latin now but what's in Greek.
Here is a Pantechnicon, and there is an Emporium,
Your shoes are “antigropelos,” your boots of “pannuscorium;”
“Fumi-porte chimney-pots,” “Eureka shirts” to cover throats,
“Idrotobolic hats,” and patent “Aqua-scutum over-coats.”
O such a town, &c.
O such a town, such a picturesque metropolis,
Taste is polychromical for painting wild;
Frescos for peers and art-unions for the populace,
Schools where young designers learn to draw it mild.
Dioramas, Cosmoramas, Cycloramas, charming ones,
Mississipi Panoramas, four miles long—alarming ones!
A national collection, where they never ask a fee at all,
Besides the Vernon Gallery, a sight no one can see at all.
O such a town, &c.
Taste is polychromical for painting wild;
Frescos for peers and art-unions for the populace,
Schools where young designers learn to draw it mild.
Dioramas, Cosmoramas, Cycloramas, charming ones,
Mississipi Panoramas, four miles long—alarming ones!
A national collection, where they never ask a fee at all,
Besides the Vernon Gallery, a sight no one can see at all.
O such a town, &c.
O such a town, such a musical metropolis,
'Mid so many bubbles surely some must squeak;
Two Italian Operas—one over safe to topple is,
Shilling concerts, shilling balls, and Poses Plastiques.
Ethiopian Serenaders, Infantine Precocities,
“Samuel Halls” in cyder cellars, growling black atrocities;
Every public-house allowed to clatter keys and twiddle strings,
Whilst the poor old English drama sits and frets herself to fiddle strings.
O such a town, &c.
'Mid so many bubbles surely some must squeak;
Two Italian Operas—one over safe to topple is,
Shilling concerts, shilling balls, and Poses Plastiques.
Ethiopian Serenaders, Infantine Precocities,
“Samuel Halls” in cyder cellars, growling black atrocities;
Every public-house allowed to clatter keys and twiddle strings,
Whilst the poor old English drama sits and frets herself to fiddle strings.
O such a town, &c.
(Exit)
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Sabra.
Was ever Princess in so sad a scrape?
Were I unbound, I'm bound not to escape.
Come quickly, death, put up poor Sabra's hatchment,
Victim of this unfortunate attachment.
St. Geo.
Despond not, damsel, for St. George am I,
Beneath this sword your scaly foe shall die,
My flag has floated Alexandra o'er,
And Aboukir has heard my cannon roar.
Air—St. George—“British Grenadiers.”
Beneath this sword your scaly foe shall die,
My flag has floated Alexandra o'er,
And Aboukir has heard my cannon roar.
This flag at Alexandria
Was borne through victory's cheers,
When gallant Abercrombie led
The British Grenadiers!
And it waved above a hero,
To England still more dear,
In the thundering row-de-dow-row-de-dow;
In the Bay of Aboukir.
Was borne through victory's cheers,
When gallant Abercrombie led
The British Grenadiers!
And it waved above a hero,
To England still more dear,
In the thundering row-de-dow-row-de-dow;
In the Bay of Aboukir.
Sabra.
Will you espouse my cause?
St. Geo.
Ay, if I may so,
And after you.
Sabra.
You're very kind to say so,
But when the Dragon comes, and breathes his flame,
Displays the claws with which he'll urge his claim,
I fear you'll very disagreeable find it.
St. Geo.
I'm a stout little fellow, and don't mind it.
Air—St. George—“When the lads of the village.”
When the Dragon I've tickled so merrily, ah!
(Who's behaviour's uncommonly wrong)
I vow unto thee, that verily, ah!
Verily, ah—verily, ah—verily, ah!
Thou and I shall be married ere long.
(Who's behaviour's uncommonly wrong)
I vow unto thee, that verily, ah!
Verily, ah—verily, ah—verily, ah!
Thou and I shall be married ere long.
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Yea, as soon as the brute who my dear would devour,
Unmistakably brown shall be done,
Let thy Mameluke daddy look ever so sour,
In the church we'll be shortly made one.
When the Dragon, &c.
Unmistakably brown shall be done,
Let thy Mameluke daddy look ever so sour,
In the church we'll be shortly made one.
When the Dragon, &c.
Re-enter Charley Wag.
Char.
He's coming.
Sabra.
What, the Dragon?
Char.
I believe you,
And such a dragon, sir, I don't deceive you,
When I assure you he's the funniest fellow,
A sort of green and yellow Punchinello,
Flapping about his queer shaped legs and wings,
As if his body were all full of springs.
Now upon four legs, now on two he prances,
And now a sort of college hornpipe dances,
Whilst up beneath his arm his tail he twitches,
As sailors on the stage their little switches.
To me he's more amusing than alarming,
I've no doubt, if he chose, he could be charming.
St. Geo.
Here is the fiddlestick shall make him caper
To a new tune! Oh, thou unthinking gaper.
Because crime gambols folly's garb beneath,
You laugh and do not heed his claws and teeth!
This Dragon is the foulest fiend on earth,
Of pestilential sophistries the birth.
License (the name by which he's sometimes known)
Poisons the people, undermines the throne,
Assumes of liberty the glorious dress,
Degrades the muses and pollutes the Press.
Never may England suffer from its rage!
St. George against it endless war shall wage.
This loyal sword shall the vile traitor slay,
Or drive him, howling, from the realms of day!
Char.
Gad, there's no nonsense about my young master,
He means to fight when he throws up his castor;
Rogues must look out when England lays about her,
I don't know what the world would do without her.
Sabra.
The Dragon's here!
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Fear nothing, gentle maid,
Let him come on!
Char.
Yes, damme, who's afraid!
(they retire)
Music—Enter the Dragon dancing a hornpipe; he has his tail under his arm, and uses an eye-glass, &c.—He approaches Sabra, very politely bows, and is about to attack her, when he is opposed by St. George and Charley, who attack and kill him, cutting off his head and tail, &c.—Charley releases Sabra—A loud shout is heard—The Sultan, Guards, and People enter.
St. Geo.
Sultan, receive your daughter safe and sound;
The Dragon fiend lies breathless on the ground.
(two Guards bear off the body of the Dragon, headed by Charley)
Sul.
And how shall we your services repay?
St. Geo.
By this fair hand, which I have won to-day,
And a free passage to the Eastern Indies,
Where I must go and kick up a few shindies.
Sul.
Indeed!
St. Geo.
Some friends of mine are there in trouble,
A wizard with them has been playing double;
He's clapped, according to my last despatches,
Two of my knight companions under hatches;
Thrown into a mesmeric sort of trance
The gallant champions both of Spain and France;
And may more mischief do if I don't stop him,
But let me catch him, and oh, won't I whop him!
Sul.
Our daughter and our friendship both are yours;
England's alliance Egypt's life insures;
Throughout our land to come, to stay, to go—
For self and friends the freedom we bestow.
Glee—“Red Cross Knight.”
Blow, trumpets, blow, and big drums thump,
And your banners wave on high;
For St. George, he has fought like a slap-up trump,
And has won the victory!
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By old and young,
And the feast eat merrily.
Solo—St. George.
Oh! I have come from St. George's Fields,
The obelisk hard by,
The only device I can bear is my shield's,
The Red Cross Knight am I.
I travelled here by the overland.
And have won the victory
O'er the Dragon so dread,
Who had otherwise fed
On the hope of your family.
Chorus.
Thou'rt welcome here, brave Red Cross Knight,
To cross o'er our Red Sea;
To make free you have sure a right
With those whom you've made free.
So all in Grand Cairo shall rejoice
That you've won the victory!
And your praise shall be sung
By old and young,
And the feast eat merrily.
(Exeunt all)
Scene Second.
—Bog and Forest, near Crow-Patrick, County Donegal.Enter Murphy.
Mur.
Och, Winisthru and Philliloo, and all
The “sthru's” and “loo's” an Irishman can bawl,
What will I do? The country swarms with vermin,
And how to deal with 'em I can't determine;
They've eaten up my pigs, the dirty creatures!
And now, by dad, they've got in the potatoes!
Let fly into the darlings' mealy faces,
And given 'em all black eyes in the wrong places.
If I had anything to eat, the question
I'm sure would give me quite an indigestion.
Air—“St. Patrick's Day in the Morning.”
The “sthru's” and “loo's” an Irishman can bawl,
What will I do? The country swarms with vermin,
And how to deal with 'em I can't determine;
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And now, by dad, they've got in the potatoes!
Let fly into the darlings' mealy faces,
And given 'em all black eyes in the wrong places.
If I had anything to eat, the question
I'm sure would give me quite an indigestion.
A plague on the question it makes such a pother,
And settle it seemingly nobody will;
This party proposes some measure or other,
Which t'other insists upon scorning;
Still they keep talking—talking, talking—
Still they keep talking, talking on.
There's no legislation
Can stop agitation,
And if one goes further,
The other cries “murther!”
We're worse off than ever—we're ruined, undone!
Will no one determine
To kick out the vermin—
St. Patrick's day in the morning.
And settle it seemingly nobody will;
This party proposes some measure or other,
Which t'other insists upon scorning;
Still they keep talking—talking, talking—
Still they keep talking, talking on.
There's no legislation
Can stop agitation,
And if one goes further,
The other cries “murther!”
We're worse off than ever—we're ruined, undone!
Will no one determine
To kick out the vermin—
St. Patrick's day in the morning.
And sure, because I've not enough to fret me,
The girls, the devils, they alone won't let me;
And not content with our own colleen oges,
Fate's sent a lot of foreigneering rogues.
A whole half-dozen on the coast jist landed,
A band of husseys that would be husbanded;
Playing at hop-scotch after some young Scot,
Who did—I don't know where—I don't know what;
But after changing them from some foul shapes,
Changed his own mind and left them to lead apes.
St. Andrew, faith, they call him, serve 'em right,
St. Patrick was the boy for them to fight;
Sure he'd have never left, but loved a score of 'em,
If their ould mother had had any more of 'em.
The girls, the devils, they alone won't let me;
And not content with our own colleen oges,
Fate's sent a lot of foreigneering rogues.
A whole half-dozen on the coast jist landed,
A band of husseys that would be husbanded;
Playing at hop-scotch after some young Scot,
Who did—I don't know where—I don't know what;
But after changing them from some foul shapes,
Changed his own mind and left them to lead apes.
St. Andrew, faith, they call him, serve 'em right,
St. Patrick was the boy for them to fight;
Sure he'd have never left, but loved a score of 'em,
If their ould mother had had any more of 'em.
O sad was the hour when St. Andrew departed,
And left six poor maidens with hearts fit to crack,
'Twas said in a steamer for Ireland he'd started,
So after him hither they sailed in a smack.
At first they thought sooner in Scotland they'd find him,
But a wise man declared, and implored them to mind him:
When the banks of the Tweed he had once left behind him,
'Twas seldom a Scotchman was known to go back.
Air—“Paddy O' Rafferty.”
And left six poor maidens with hearts fit to crack,
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So after him hither they sailed in a smack.
At first they thought sooner in Scotland they'd find him,
But a wise man declared, and implored them to mind him:
When the banks of the Tweed he had once left behind him,
'Twas seldom a Scotchman was known to go back.
But before they'd come here they had better gone back again,
For it's taken to steer, he has, on a new tack again;
It's a bitterish pill, and they're crying “O, lack!” again,
But it's “Fly away, Gill,” after “Fly away, Jack,” again!
Up in a hurry their traps they must pack again,
Off they must scurry on board their old smack again,
If they have luck they may hit on his track again,
If not the poor ducks on a pond may go quack again.
Ri tol tooleroloo, &c.
For it's taken to steer, he has, on a new tack again;
It's a bitterish pill, and they're crying “O, lack!” again,
But it's “Fly away, Gill,” after “Fly away, Jack,” again!
Up in a hurry their traps they must pack again,
Off they must scurry on board their old smack again,
If they have luck they may hit on his track again,
If not the poor ducks on a pond may go quack again.
Ri tol tooleroloo, &c.
Shrieks and cries of “Help! Help!”
Mur.
Murder in Irish! what's this hubbaboo?
The foreign females in an Irish stew!
A prey to wild men of the woods.
Hurried music—Enter Six Wild Men dragging the Six Daughters of the King of Thrace.
Leave go!
Ye villains! wigs upon the green, here! ho!
He attacks the Wild Men, and is getting the worst of it when
Enter St. Patrick.
St. Pat.
St. Patrick to the rescue!
(he slays and beats the Wild Men off)
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Eh! what's that?
St. Patrick! By the powers, you have come pat!
O! ladies, ladies, down upon your knees,
And help me bless St. Patrick, if you please.
(they kneel)
St. Pat.
Nay, my good fellow, little have I done—
Mur.
Little! you've kilt the blackguards every one!
St. Pat.
Little, I mean, to what I hope to do.
Of Erin's troubles these are but a few;
I came the Emerald Isle of all to clear,
That keep her foes in hope, her friends in fear:
Out of the grass I'll hunt the cunning snake,
That lives upon the mischief he can make;
Drive from the sunny bank the fierce black adder,
That stings half frantic men to make them madder;
Banish the bloated toad that fat has grown,
Squatting upon the peasant's cold hearth-stone;
And from the poor patch of the cultivator,
Chase the devouring aphis devastator!
Mur.
Kick out the serpents and restore the murphies!
Oh! you'll be blest wherever bog or turf is.
Sir, if a clearance at that rate is made,
It will be something like “a rate in aid.”
St. Pat.
And you, fair strangers, if you've no objection,
To place yourselves beneath my poor protection,
I know the object of your visit here,
And when I've seen this coast of evil clear
I'll with you seek the brave St. Andrew out.
The cautious Scot concealed from all his route;
But I suspect he's gone to Tartary,
Where two brave knights in magic slumber lie.
This four-leaved shamrock by its power shall do,
Justice to Ireland first, and then to you.
Air—St. Patrick—“The Four-leaved Shamrock.”
To place yourselves beneath my poor protection,
I know the object of your visit here,
And when I've seen this coast of evil clear
I'll with you seek the brave St. Andrew out.
The cautious Scot concealed from all his route;
But I suspect he's gone to Tartary,
Where two brave knights in magic slumber lie.
This four-leaved shamrock by its power shall do,
Justice to Ireland first, and then to you.
I've found the four-leaved shamrock,
And with its holy spell;
I'll clear of vermin venomous,
The land I love so well.
The plague that poisons all her food,
Its virtue shall destroy,
And Erin's honest heart again
Beat high with love and joy;
For so I'll play the enchanter's part
And scatter bliss around,
That not a thing to wound or sting,
Shall in the isle be found.
And with its holy spell;
I'll clear of vermin venomous,
The land I love so well.
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Its virtue shall destroy,
And Erin's honest heart again
Beat high with love and joy;
For so I'll play the enchanter's part
And scatter bliss around,
That not a thing to wound or sting,
Shall in the isle be found.
(Exit)
Mur.
Justice to Ireland! Bannagher that's beating!
Ladies, I hope and trust you don't mind waiting.
St. Patrick is a gentleman, good luck to him,
And sticks at nothing to serve those who've stuck to him.
Song—Air—“St. Patrick was a gentleman.”
Ladies, I hope and trust you don't mind waiting.
St. Patrick is a gentleman, good luck to him,
And sticks at nothing to serve those who've stuck to him.
St. Patrick is a gentleman,
And comes of decent people,
He built a church in Dublin town,
And on it put a steeple.
His father is a Gallagher,
His mother is a Brady,
His aunt is an O'Shaughnessy,
His uncle an O'Grady.
So blessing on St. Patrick's fist,
For he's our champion Saint O!
He gave the snakes and toads a twist,
He's a beauty without paint O!
Air—“While gazing on the moon's light.”
And comes of decent people,
He built a church in Dublin town,
And on it put a steeple.
His father is a Gallagher,
His mother is a Brady,
His aunt is an O'Shaughnessy,
His uncle an O'Grady.
So blessing on St. Patrick's fist,
For he's our champion Saint O!
He gave the snakes and toads a twist,
He's a beauty without paint O!
And faith, the whiles I'm talking,
Ye see the fun has just begun—
The snakes and toads he's walking
Out fast as iver they can run.
Out wid ye—I bid ye—
Too long you've bothered Erin dear;
St. Patrick knows a trick
Worth two of that ye'd play him here.
Get into the Bay of Galloway,
For really you can't compete with him;
And give the great Sea Serpent, pray,
My compliments—if you meet with him!
Ye see the fun has just begun—
The snakes and toads he's walking
Out fast as iver they can run.
Out wid ye—I bid ye—
Too long you've bothered Erin dear;
St. Patrick knows a trick
Worth two of that ye'd play him here.
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For really you can't compete with him;
And give the great Sea Serpent, pray,
My compliments—if you meet with him!
The reptiles cross the stage, driven out by St. Patrick, followed by the Princesses and Murphy.
Scene Third.
—Enchanted Gardens of Ormandine—In the centre is a Loadstone Rock, out of which protrudes the hilt of the magic sword—Dance of Spirits.Enter Ormandine as the dance concludes.
Orman.
Vanish! (Exeunt Dancers)
Enough of revelry a present,
Pleasure I've none for bodings most unpleasant;
But two out of these Seven Champions hated,
Have I, as yet, in my “lock-up” located;
I am not safe till all the other five,
Are in my custody, dead or alive!
My art has raised illusion to distract them,
And by this magnet I may here attract them,
And throw them into the mesmeric sleep
In which St. Denis and St. James I keep.
At present I can do them no more harm,
Their Christian creed defies each pagan charm;
Oh! but for that I'd make each saint a martyr,
And hang St. George up in his own blue garter.
(a Spirit rises)
Now, Spirit!
Spirit.
From Thibet, the great Cham's Court,
I've hither shot—
Orman.
And what is your report?
Spirit.
Bearer of most important news I am.
Made for his prowess champion of the Cham,
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To try the adventure of the magic sword.
Orman.
Lured by the name, no doubt, the Cambrian boaster,
Because for sport, I called it my cheese-toaster;
Well, let him try, into my trap he'll fall,
And find his bait is not the cheese at all.
(harp heard without)
Hark, to those chords! they speak the Welshman nigh,
He'll find some cords much stronger by-and-bye.
(Ormandine and Spirit retire)
Enter St. David and Ap Shenkin with a harp.
Air—St. David—“Jenny Jones.”
I come from the court of the great Kara-Khan, sir—
His champion I am, though St. David of Wales—
To put out the pipe of an arch necromancer
Who fills with his vapours this sweetest of vales.
I own that a glance from the Cham's lovely daughter
To try this adventure put up my Welsh blood;
And as my better half I hope her arms to quarter
With those of my ancestors up to the flood.
His champion I am, though St. David of Wales—
To put out the pipe of an arch necromancer
Who fills with his vapours this sweetest of vales.
I own that a glance from the Cham's lovely daughter
To try this adventure put up my Welsh blood;
And as my better half I hope her arms to quarter
With those of my ancestors up to the flood.
Deep in this leafy glen, green as a leek,
The wizard holds his soirées fantastiques!
Plays all his tricks, deprives, in one séance,
His hapless audience of all clairvoyance;
Makes all mankind his victims or his butts,
And when he can no longer shuffle—cuts.
Deserted now seem these bewildering bowers,
But devils in a bush are all the flowers,
And bent on mischief every branch and bough.
Despite of all I will perform my vow!
Where is the magic sword whose trenchant blade
Has of the loadstone rock a scabbard made,
And so defies the strength of mortal arm
To draw it forth and break the wizard's charm?
The wizard holds his soirées fantastiques!
Plays all his tricks, deprives, in one séance,
His hapless audience of all clairvoyance;
Makes all mankind his victims or his butts,
And when he can no longer shuffle—cuts.
Deserted now seem these bewildering bowers,
But devils in a bush are all the flowers,
And bent on mischief every branch and bough.
Despite of all I will perform my vow!
Where is the magic sword whose trenchant blade
Has of the loadstone rock a scabbard made,
And so defies the strength of mortal arm
To draw it forth and break the wizard's charm?
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It is here, look you!
(pointing to it)
St. Dav.
Ay, I see the hilt!
It is a wicked weapon, by the gilt!
To give the fiend a handle would be hard;
With blade so sharp I must be on my guard;
I'll pluck it out—if I have any luck,
At least it shall not be for want of pluck.
(attempts to pull out the sword)
Ah! as I seize it something seizes me,
I sink in slumber!
(sinks on a couch which moves on from one side)
Orman.
(advancing)
Nabb'd is number three!
Ap Shen.
Pless hur and save hur!
Orman.
Change thy human habit,
And burrow there with brutes like a Welsh rabbit.
(Ap Shenkin disappears, and a Rabbit appears in his place)
Work on, brave spirits, lure them one by one
Into my toils, till brown each wight be done!
Through yon arcades again bright armour glances,
'Tis Anthony of Italy advances;
The hated spark, who with his nostrum famous,
Destroyed that dear old giant, Ignoramus.
One of my Spirits, in fair Una's shape,
He follows blindly and shall not escape;
By beauty's semblance lured, he duty fled,
Nothing can save a warrior so mis-led.
Music—The phantom of Una enters, pursued by St. Anthony.
St. Ant.
Una, my love! what means this sudden flight,
Why dost thou shun thy true and tender knight?
Music—The Phantom points to the sword in the rock.
What dost thou mutely point at? Ah! a sword!
Plunged in the ground, the sign of old, adored
By the wild Scythians, and without a doubt,
You drew me in here but to draw it out.
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(seizes the handle)
What stupor steels my senses o'er?
He sinks on bank, which moves on—Una disappears, and Spirit appears in her place.
Orman.
Featly done, phantom. (Exit Spirit)
Fast is number four!
The charm works well. Ha! what may this forebode,
(looking at his ring)
Why pales my magic carbuncle, that glowed
With joyous fire? Some dangerous combination,
Of hostile powers—and lo! in consternation
My Spirits come!
Enter several Spirits.
Spirit.
With evil we're beset.
Three dauntless champions have together met;
St. George, St. Andrew, and St. Patrick, bound
By kindred ties, and each for arms renowned;
Singly their valour we should fearful find,
What power can resist the three combined?
Orman.
Dissension and distrust between them spread!
Spirit.
Faction tried that in vain—they struck her dead!
Orman.
Still in the power of falsehood we are strong.
Let dire chimeras rise their path along;
Shadows of evil oft will strike alarm,
When evil's self would fail!
Enter St. George, St. Andrew, St. Patrick, with Charley Wag.
St. Geo.
Despair thy charm!
Thus in the name of truth the spell I break!
(pulls the sword out of the rock—Thunder and lightning, a chasm opens at the back, shewing a subterraneous vault, into which Ormandine and Spirits retreat—Scene closes)
My brave companions, from your trance awake!
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They answer not, though 'tis enough to make 'em.
St. Pat.
Perhaps, as I am Irish, I could wake 'em.
St. Geo.
Upon this blade some characters I see!
Char.
Very bad characters they'll surely be!
St. Geo.
(reading)
“Whilst in the vault seven spirit lamps shall shine,
Nought can destroy the power of Ormandine.”
Then if they shine much longer 'tis my fault,
Into the vault undauntedly I'll vault!
Follow your leader, Wag, you I shall want!
Char.
As long as I can wag, depend upon't.
Music—St. George leaps into the vault, followed by Charley Wag—Fiends oppose them with fiery swords—They force their way through—The Fiends attack St. Andrew and St. Patrick, who fight them off as the scene closes.
Scene Fourth.
—Vault of the Seven Lamps.Music—Enter Ormandine.
Orman.
I have retreated to my last retreat;
My arts can neither terrify nor cheat
The downright champion of the ruby cross.
How even time to gain I'm at a loss!
For upon all my mean wiles fast he stamps;
My only hope is in these spirit lamps;
From which proceed, by ignis fatuii fed,
All the false lights that have the world misled,
Kept in a smoke and smother every nation,
And may eventually burn all creation.
Till every one's extinguished, fraud may juggle,
And against truth continue the old struggle.
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St. Geo.
Then, as St. Andrew says, “bide but a wee bit,”
“Magna est veritas et prevalebit.”
Guided by truth I've threaded this dark maze,
Tracked your sly steps thro' these intricate ways;
My sword's keen edge I know you cannot feel,
But there's a power sharper edged than steel,
Which can push humbug from his highest stool;
Nothing kills quackery but ridicule;
Its point is fatal to the boldest cheat,
Its aqua fortis bites the counterfeit.
Its scornful fingers snuff out folly's new lights.
And shew up all pretenders in their true lights;
Forward, brave Wag, and with burlesque and whim,
Douse of this artful dodger every glim.
(Exit)
Enter Charley Wag.
Chaunt ad Libitum—“Alteration.”
Well, with which to begin—it don't matter a pin,
For they're all much in the same situation;
But perhaps this of Italy, flaring-up bitterly,
Is the most likely to cause a conflagration.
So out that goes pop—and to Spain next we hop,
Where there's smoke enough to smother the whole nation,
And keeps the poor people in such confusion,
That one day under an extraordinary delusion
They actually kicked out their nearest diplomatic relation
Which might have caused an alteration—an alteration,
A very deplorable alteration.
For they're all much in the same situation;
But perhaps this of Italy, flaring-up bitterly,
Is the most likely to cause a conflagration.
So out that goes pop—and to Spain next we hop,
Where there's smoke enough to smother the whole nation,
And keeps the poor people in such confusion,
That one day under an extraordinary delusion
They actually kicked out their nearest diplomatic relation
Which might have caused an alteration—an alteration,
A very deplorable alteration.
And now we advance to our lively friend France
Who has lately undergone so much transformation
That to say whether she stands on her heels or her hands
Is an answer she really might not be able to give without considerable consideration.
But we've nothing to do with it—and so I'll not trouble you with it—
But extinguish, I hope, in each nation
Every sort of desire to kindle any fire
Except that of a generous emulation,
Which will be an alteration—an alteration—
A very capital alteration!
Who has lately undergone so much transformation
That to say whether she stands on her heels or her hands
Is an answer she really might not be able to give without considerable consideration.
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But extinguish, I hope, in each nation
Every sort of desire to kindle any fire
Except that of a generous emulation,
Which will be an alteration—an alteration—
A very capital alteration!
As to England, Scotland, and Wales, such very good feeling prevails,
That to put out the little farthing rushlights of fermentation
That left on their shelves would go out of themselves,
Is really almost an act of supererogation.
But there is one more—the spirit lamp at next door,
Which keeps the whole kingdom in such a state of inflammation,
That if I have but the wit to put out that, you'll admit
I am more up to snuff than any former administration;
For it will make an alteration—an alteration—
A most desirable alteration!
That to put out the little farthing rushlights of fermentation
That left on their shelves would go out of themselves,
Is really almost an act of supererogation.
But there is one more—the spirit lamp at next door,
Which keeps the whole kingdom in such a state of inflammation,
That if I have but the wit to put out that, you'll admit
I am more up to snuff than any former administration;
For it will make an alteration—an alteration—
A most desirable alteration!
And hark!—by that token!—the spell is now broken,
So to finish this rather long-winded oration,
I have only to request, as we really have all done our best
To add to your amusement and edification,
That when, as I mean, I change to the last scene,
Which, I think, you will own is a gorgeous decoration,
You'll be kind enough to say, in your usual good-natured way,
That the scenery, by Mr. Beverley,
Has been painted very cleverly,
And that the piece, taken altogether, meets with your full approbation,
So to finish this rather long-winded oration,
I have only to request, as we really have all done our best
To add to your amusement and edification,
That when, as I mean, I change to the last scene,
Which, I think, you will own is a gorgeous decoration,
You'll be kind enough to say, in your usual good-natured way,
That the scenery, by Mr. Beverley,
Has been painted very cleverly,
And that the piece, taken altogether, meets with your full approbation,
For in your favour we don't want any alteration—alteration—
No—not an atom of alteration.
No—not an atom of alteration.
(as he puts out the last lamp thunder and Ormandine sinks)
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Scene Fifth.
—The Camp of the Seven Champions—Grand Tableau of St. George and the Dragon—The other Champions ranged under their banners attended by Knights, Ladies, &c.—During the chorus Fame rises over St. George.Finale—Chorus—“Drum Polka.”
Bid the gallant champions hail!
Who have struggled well and long,
In the cause that should prevail—
Truth and right, 'gainst fraud and wrong!
Laurels they have oft before,
Fairly gathered in your sight;
Let them gain one laurel more,
By a triumph here to-night.
CURTAIN.
| The Seven Champions of Christendom | |