University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

Stonehenge by sunset, and Merlin's cave. Inscription over entrance, “A Lodge of the Ancient Druids. Meeting every Monday night.”
Enter, to “Haydn's Surprise,” four Druids separately. They each give three knocks at cave—to music. With the last Merlin appears, comes forward mysteriously, and sings.
Song: Air, “Mistletoe-bough.”
Mer.
The mistletoe hangs in the place where it should,
And the wine, boys, to-night is uncommonly good;
And some capital fellows are joking away,
And keeping it up in a style rather gay.
Whilst some, who will sing every song that they know,
Soon under the table will speedily go;
So from this you may fancy how far I am right
When I say that the “Druids” are jolly to-night.
O, the mistletoe row!
O, the mistletoe row!

Mer.
You know the way—the old room—ah, that's it!
[Exeunt Druids.
O, ain't they going it above a bit!
Our noble vice to give advice ain't able,
And those who've passed the chair can't pass the table.

Enter Druid.
Druid.
The Noble Grand's required.

[Exit.
Mer.
Ha, ha! ifegs!
The Noble Grand is glad to stretch his legs.

Enter Sir Tristram.
Sir T.
All's quiet. Ha! Who's that?

Mer.
Some knave, I fear.
It's a Lodge night, my friend; you can't lodge here.

Sir T.
What, Merlin!

Mer.
Tristram! Ha, how don't you do?
Why, who'd have ever thought of seeing you?

Sir T.
Your gait's unsteady, and your style is rough.

Mer.
I must confess I think I've had enough.

Sir T.
I've come on pressing business you to tease.

[Shaking hands.
Mer.
Pressing indeed, if judging by your squeeze.

Sir T.
You aided me a maiden to entrap—

Mer.
You want her carried back again, mayhap?

Sir T.
Not so. But this another strives to do.

Mer.
But you're not going to let him do it? Pooh!
Your castle keeps the knight in check.

Sir T.
The same;
But then that castle will not win the game.
Small obstacles won't stop him.

Mer.
For preventance
Just put a full-stop then, and close his sentence.

Sir T.
That's just the very thing which I'd do now
But for one drawback—that's, I don't know how.

Mer.
You're a nice individual, you are—very;
It's very well for you I'm rather merry.
Our compact shall be kept. But here's a metaphor
You could, or would, or should be all the better for.

Sir T.
Go on—your wisdom well becomes your age.

Mer.
We always stuff a goose with what is sage.

Enter Druid.
Druid.
The Noble Grand has his health drunk once more.
[Exit Druid.

Mer.
The Noble Grand has been drunk once before.
Listen: you've doubtless seen at village fair
Three prizes poised upon three sticks with care;
Whilst here a box, and there a bell is heard,
A tempting pincushion will crown the third.
The man invites, and thrice the staves you throw;
With dextrous aim you give each stick a blow;
But down successive as in holes they fall,
Nor box, nor bell, nor cushion's gained at all.
So thus sink hopes that never more may rise;
You lose your patience, and you gain no prize.

Sir T.
But what's this fable got to do with me?

Mer.
Moral—ahem!—The stick yourself must be.
One shy you've had—this is the second blow;
The third you're mine, and that's your overthrow.

Sir T.
I'll shy at everything, let him but fall.
But perhaps I tire you?

Mer.
Dear, no; not at all.
With two temptations I'll his road assail:
The first is Wine; and then, if that should fail,
Woman shall come and tempt him with her flattery;
I'll charge him with a full gal-vanic battery.

Sir T.
Delightful!

Mer.
Eh?

Sir T.
I mean delightful plan.

Mer.
I thought perhaps you'd like to be the man.

Sir T.
He cannot both escape; it's plain indeed,
If wine comes first, the second must succeed.

Mer.
You're satisfied?

Sir T.
I am.

Mer.
Then in we'll dodge;
It's a grand night with this our ancient lodge.

Sir T.
I'm an odd fellow.

Mer.
Very, I'm afraid;
But if you'd like to be a Druid made,
I'll make you one.

Sir T.
No red-hot poker?

Mer.
Honour!
Entrance—a guinea frees the noble donor.

Duet: Air, “All's well.”
Merlin and Sir Tristram.
Diverted by this whining spoon,
Who tries to claim a knight's own boon,
Where sherry, port, or tent is found,
Of century corks we'll take the round.
And should our footsteps haply stray
Where tall policemen guard the way,
“Who goes there? your name and business tell;”
“John Smith;” the fine, five shillings. Ah, all's well!

[Exeunt into cavern lodge. Scene closes.