 | An Original Light English Opera, in Three Acts. Entitled Haddon Hall |  |
ACT I.
Scene.—The Terrace.To-day, it is a festal time!
The bridegroom comes to-day,
And we are here to sing a rhyme
To speed him on his way.
To-day, our mistress, ever dear,
Doth plight her virgin troth;
And we are all foregathered here
To sing, God bless them both!
DANCE.
Dorcas.
But midst our jubilation
Comes the echo of a sigh;
Its full signification
Ye will gather by-and-bye.
Now, lend me your attention
While I tell ye all a tale,
Anent a dainty dormouse
And an unattractive snail.
Dorcas.
'Twas a dear little dormouse—
A little mouse-maid!
Her papa and mamma
She had always obeyed.
Pit-a-pat went her heart,
And her cheek it grew pale,
When commanded to marry
A stupid old snail.
“Oh, father, I cannot!”
“But, daughter, thou must;
For he has a house,
And we haven't a crust!”
The snail he was ugly,
The snail he was black;
But for all that, he carried
A house on his back.
Said the wily old dormouse,
“When thou art his bride,
He will lend us his house,
And we'll all live inside!”
Chorus.
“Oh, father, I cannot!”
“But, daughter, thou must;
For he has a house,
And we haven't a crust!”
Dorcas.
A gallant young squirrel
Sat perched on a tree,
And he thought to himself,
There's a good wife for me!
On the eve of the wedding
He said to the mouse,
“Wilt thou marry a squirrel
Who hasn't a house?”
“Oh, squirrel, I cannot!”
“But, dormouse, thou must
Her heart to a squirrel
A dormouse may trust!”
They plighted their vows,
And the squirrel ran off
With the little dormouse.
And I'm sure if you ever
Set eyes on a snail,
You will all sympathize
With the dormouse's wail.
Chorus.
Don't tell me I must;
Though he has a house,
And we haven't a crust!”
And who is the snail?
Enter Sir George Vernon, Lady Vernon and Dorothy.
Hail to the Lord of Haddon!
And thee, his silver bride!
And to thy daughter, fairest flower
Of all the country side!
Girls.
Nor bluebell we bring,
To garland thy pathway
With fragrance of spring.
That dies in a day
Can speak an affection
That blossoms alway.
Our hands could entwine
Could tell the devotion
That ever is thine.
All.
In lieu of the lily
And bonny bluebell,
We lay on thine altar
True love's immortelles.
Dorothy.
Dear playmates of childhood,
Right welcome are you!
More fragrant than lily
A love that is true.
Lady Vernon.
Like flower amaranthine
Whose blossoms ne'er fade,
It blooms in the sunshine
And blooms in the shade.
Welcome, I bid ye welcome, one and all!
Let youth and beauty keep their merry May;
For all too soon the leaves of autumn fall,
And evening shadows quench the laughing day.
Paints the hedgerows red and white,
Gather then your garlands gay;
Earth was made for man's delight!
May is playtime,—
June is haytime,—
Seize the daytime,—
Fa la la!
Carol now the birds of spring!
Let our hearts in chorus sing!
Ere the golden day is pale,
Dawns the silver orb of night;
Sweetly trills the nightingale,
“Earth was made for man's delight!”
“Nearer death and further birth!”
Time enough for hearts to cry,
“Man was only made for earth!”
Youth is pleasant,—
Grasp the present,—
Moons are crescent,—
Fa la la!
Time enough for hearts to sigh!
Now the noonday sun is high!
Day in cloth of gold is gay,
Robe of silver wears the night;
All creation seems to say,
“Earth was made for man's delight!”
[Exeunt Chorus and Dorcas.
Sir George.
What ails thee, Doll? This little head might hold
the cares of empire. Smile on me—smile! To-day, of all days,
I would have thee merry. What will our cousin Rupert think of
thee?
Dorothy.
I care not what our cousin Rupert thinks.
Lady Vernon.
Methought he liked not merriment?
Sir George.
True, Rupert hath espoused the Roundhead cause;
but if I judge aright, short commons and long prayers will like not
him! Be not deceived, our cousin's head is rather long than round.
He serves the parliament—
And serves the times.
Dorothy.
In brief, he is not honest.
Sir George.
Honest, as times go. If, when he is thy husband, he
is true to thee, heed not his politics.
Dorothy.
I heed them not, nor his truth either, for he will never
be husband of mine.
Sir George.
Hearken, Doll. I do not care to plague thy pretty
head with musty documents and lawyers' quirks; enough to say that
there are some who hold our cousin's title to this fair estate stronger
than ours. This marriage puts an end to doubts and questions that
have troubled me, and would be grateful to the parliament, which loves
me none too well.
Lady Vernon.
Then, must Doll wed to please the parliament?
Sir George.
And me!
Dorothy.
From childhood I have striven to please thee, father.
Sir George.
And thou hast pleased me well!
Dorothy.
And I will strive to please thee still in everything save
this. Do with me as thou wilt, but spare my heart. I cannot give
thee what is not mine own.
Sir George.
Hast thou not yet forgot this youth—whose very name
my lips refuse to speak?
Lady Vernon.
Manners—John Manners.
Sir George.
Rutland's younger son! Shame on thee—shame!
He is beneath thee, Doll. Remember who thou art. Remember that
with thee pass all the lands of Haddon and this ancient hall, which
smiles there as it smiled even before the Conquest.
Dorothy.
I know well who I am. I know from whom I am descended;
nor do I forget their ancient watchword, “Drede God, and
honour the King!” God I have ever dreaded; and the king I honour,
by loving one whose sword hath served his cause.
Sir George.
If he would sheath that sword—if he would only pay
decent respect to parliament.
Dorothy.
He were a traitor, and not worth my love! Oh, father
dear, turn not from me in anger! Is it sin to love?
Sir George.
Did I speak harshly? Then forgive me, Doll! Ever
since my son—my only son—died, fighting for his country, on the sea—
thou art my all in all. It breaks my heart to ruffle thee. Go, tell thy
lover—if he sheath his sword—if he acknowledge parliament—which
otherwise might forfeit my estate—I will confer with Rupert.
Dorothy.
'Twere vain to ask him. It were worse than vain.
So be it! Go thy way and I go mine. Remember
only that my word is given, and that a Vernon doth not break his pledge.
Dorothy.
I am a Vernon, too, and shall I not keep mine?
Sir George.
Bandy not words with me. No longer do I beg thee
—I command!
TRIO.
Dorothy.
Nay, father dear, speak not to me
In anger's cruel tone!
Lady Vernon.
By all the love she bears to thee—
The love that is thine own!
Dorothy.
Remember all thou art to me;
Remember all I am to thee;
And marvel not that hearts will ache—
Dorothy and Lady Vernon.
For true love's sake!/For true love's sake!
Sir George.
Go, bid thy lover sheath his sword
And bend his stubborn knee;
Is all thy thought for thine adored,
And hast thou none for me?
Lady Vernon.
For true love's sake a heart will sigh!
Sir George.
For true love's sake a heart will die!
Dorothy.
His oath a soldier cannot break!
Dorothy and Lady Vernon.
For true love's sake!/For true love's sake!
Lady Vernon, Dorothy, Sir George.
For true love's sake a heart will break!/sigh!/die!
[Exit Sir George.
DUET.
Dorothy.
Mother, dearest mother,
Hearken unto me,
Think not that another
Draws my heart from thee.
Though each day I know him
Brighter shines the sun,
All the love I owe him
Robbeth thee of none.
His I seem to borrow,
All mine own is thine;
In my virgin sorrow
Help me, mother mine
Were but I above him,
Simple were his task;
Doth my daughter love him?
That is all I ask.
Were but I above him,
Stranger though he be,
If my daughter love him,
Son he is to me!
Whether wife or maiden,
All my heart is thine;
Joy or sorrow laden,
Thou art daughter mine
Dorothy and Lady Vernon.
Whether wife or maiden,
Thou art mother/daughter mine;
Joy or sorrow laden,
All my heart is thine!
Dorothy.
Mother, my own dear mother,
Both of our lives entwine!
Couldst thou have wed another,
Had such a love been thine?
Oh, mother dear,
I love him so,
No doubt or fear
I seem to know!
Lady Vernon.
Go on thy way with gladness!
Happily live the wife!
And leave to me the sadness,
And leave to me the strife.
Dorothy and Lady Vernon.
Whether wife or maiden,
Thou art mother/daughter mine
Joy or sorrow laden,
All my heart is thine!
[Exeunt.
(Re-enter Chorus, surrounding Oswald.)
CHORUS.
Ribbons to sell, ribbons to sell!
Ribbons to tie up our hair!
Who'll buy? I! I! and I as well!
And now for the fun of the fair!
Oswald.
Come, simples and gentles, and gather ye round,
And for your attention I'll thank'ee;
I sell by the pennyweight, pottle and pound,
Wares English, French, German, and Yankee.
I've wares for the young, nor left out in the cold
Are their elders, the more is the pity,
For I can't help remarking you're none of you old
And noting you're all of you pretty!
I've articles suited to every taste
And ev'ry description of weather;
If any fair lady 'll oblige with a waist,
We'll try on this girdle together!
Chorus.
Although on his back he may carry a pack,
He has hands of a wonderful whiteness;
And this sympathetic young peripatetic
A paragon is of politeness!
Oswald.
My prices are low and my dealings are cash,
So your pockets I won't dip in deeply;
Thro' buying my stock at a great London smash
I am able to sell very cheaply;
So bid for it boldly, but please bear in mind
That the rule of cash down is “de rigueur.”
The price of each article, ladies, you'll find,
Has been marked in a very plain figure.
A complaint the proprietor begs to implore
In case you're not treated politely,
For I am a kind of a travelling store—
In fact, I'm a premature Whiteley!
Chorus.
He bought up a great metropolitan smash
At a sacrifice truly alarming;
He doesn't deduct any discount for cash,
But his manners are perfectly charming!
Oswald.
Now isn't that beautiful? isn't that nice?
When I tell you the article's German,
You'll know it could only be sold at the price
Thro' a grand international firman.
A still greater bargain! An article French.
When I say it's of French manufacture,
I mean that if worn by a beautiful wench,
A heart it is certain to fracture.
But here is the prize—only tuppence—pure gold
When I mention, the article's Yankee,
Well, nobody then will require to be told
That there can't be the least hanky-panky!
Who'll buy?
Chorus.
Not I!
Oswald.
Who'll buy?
Chorus.
Not I!
Oswald.
A chance like this you mustn't miss!
Chorus.
Oh, yes! oh, yes! the chance we'll miss!
For we've been told, alas!
That what is sold as Yankee gold
Is sometimes Yankee brass.
[Exeunt Chorus.
Oswald.
This to thy mistress!
Dorcas
(recoiling).
By our lady, nay!
Oswald.
Thou art a comely wench, and thy face tells me thou art
to be trusted.
Dorcas.
But art thou to be trusted? For I do not know thee; and
ere now packmen have been found deceivers.
Oswald.
I am no packman! Lo!
(Throws aside his cloak.)
God
save the King!
Dorcas.
Grammercy! 'tis a gallant gentleman!
(holds out her hand)
Now will I trust thee.
Oswald.
But thou dost not know me, and ere now young men
have been found deceivers.
Dorcas.
I'll hazard it!
(Oswald gives her the letter.)
Nay,
prithee, do not cover thyself up ere I have had another glimpse
of thee.
(Oswald flings off his cloak.)
(Aside.)
Truly a most desirable
young man!
(Aloud.)
Dost come from London, sir?
Oswald.
From London—aye!
Dorcas
(Aside, clasping hands).
What pretty things they make in
London town!
(Aloud.)
Of course, sir, thou art some fine gentleman?
Oswald.
No—but a soldier and a serving-man.
Dorcas.
A serving-man! And I a serving-maid! Then this
(indicating
letter)
comes not from thee?
Oswald.
From Master Manners. He it is to whom I owe suit and
service.
Dorcas.
From Master Manners! Then I guess its burden.
Oswald.
Carry that burden to thy mistress, straight!
Dorcas.
Is there such haste?
Oswald.
My master is hard by, and he awaits an answer.
Dorcas.
Look me in the face! Art thou indeed a servant? or art
thou thine own master—in disguise?
Oswald.
Nay, I am only my plain self.
Thank Heaven!
Oswald.
Oswald, my name!
Dorcas.
Mine, Dorcas.
Oswald.
Shall we be friends?
Dorcas.
With all my heart!
(Oswald approaches her, she draws
back.)
Hold! our acquaintance is too young for that.
Oswald.
For what? I did but offer thee my hand.
Dorcas.
Was it thy hand?
Oswald.
I dared not offer more; but if thou challenge me—
Dorcas
(recoiling).
Not I!
Oswald.
Thou art a winsome wench, but thou art coy.
Dorcas.
Thou art not coy!
Oswald.
Life is too brief for modesty
(holding her)
.
Dorcas
(reflectively).
'Tis rather waste of time.
Oswald.
We shall not long be young.
Dorcas.
And in the end it comes to the same thing.
Oswald.
That is philosophy
(kisses her).
Dorcas.
Enough—for the first lesson. Art thou a great philosopher?
Oswald.
Aye; for I've read life's riddle. Life holds one secret.
Live!
DUET.
Oswald.
The sun's in the sky, and
The grass in the ground;
Nature maternal,
Placid, supernal,
Spreadeth her vernal
Mantle around.
Dorcas.
'Tis idle repining,
When summer is gay;
When from her coffers
Jewels she offers,
Scorn not her proffers,
Say her not nay!
Oswald.
While morning is shining,
Your garlands entwine;
Ere evening closes,
Gather your posies,
Jasmine and roses,
Sweet eglantine!
While yet it is daylight,
Rejoice in the day;
Nought to repent of,
Breath be content of,
Fragrant with scent of
Newly mown hay!
Both.
Night will come soon enough—
Starlight nor moon enough!
While there is noon enough,
Let us be gay!
Oswald.
No grace is in grief, and
No virtue in tears!
Come what may after,
Youth and its laughter
Piercing the rafter,
Gladden the spheres!
Dorcas.
To-morrow we'll sorrow
But now let us sing!
Happy to-day be,
Joyous and gay be,
Plucking while may be
Blossoms of spring!
Oswald.
Each gift of creation
Is heaven's envoy;
Ne'er a bud springeth,
Ne'er a bird singeth,
But to earth bringeth
Tidings of joy!
Dorcas.
Oh! list to the message
The hemispheres voice!
“Folly is sadness,
Misery, madness,
Holy is gladness—
Thine is the choice!”
Both.
Night will come soon enough—
Starlight nor moon enough!
While there is noon enough,
Let us rejoice!
(Dorothy is seen coming down the terrace.)
My mistress comes. Thyself thy missive give.
Dorothy advances towards her.)
Oswald.
Madam, I bow.
Dorothy.
Sir, who art thou?
Oswald.
Servant of one whose name I must not tell.
This from his hand—and from his heart as well.
(Dorothy reads the letter.)
TRIO.
Dorothy.
Oh, tell me, what is a maid to say,
What is a maid to do,
When heart says, “Go,” and duty “Stay,”
And she'd to both be true?
Oh, tell me, what is a maid to say?
Shall it be rice or rue?
When heart says “Yea,” and duty “Nay,”
What is a maid to do?
The Three.
Yea or nay?
Go or stay?
To which be false, to which be true?
When a maiden wavers 'twixt yea and nay—
Shall it be rice or rue?
Oswald.
Thou askest what is a maid to say,
What is a maid to do?
I answer, if her heart say yea,
Her duty says so too.
Dorcas.
I can but tell thee what I should say,
Tell thee what I should do;
I'd go in showers of rice away,
And leave behind the rue.
The Three.
Yea or nay?
Go or stay?
To which be false, to which be true?
When a maiden wavers 'twixt yea and nay—
Shall it be rice or rue?
Exeunt severally.
Enter John Manners, looking cautiously about him.
Manners.
Beshrew the knave! What hath become of him? Can
they have laid him by the heels? or may it be, love hath outpaced
his messenger? Ne'er have I ventured quite so close before. I
tread the grass her feet have trod to-day; the blooms that smiled upon
her, smile on me; and in the scented breeze, I seem to feel her breath
upon my cheek!
And a beauty rare
Bespangles lake and lea,
Ere day is done
And the setting sun
Dips down beneath the sea;
But never a sun in the skies afar
Bright as the eyes of my lady are,
My lady who loves me!
Where in the shining frame above,
Where in the great design,
Where in the world is found a love
Like unto mine and thine?
Like unto thine and mine, love!
Like unto mine and thine!
Is the evening star—
Sweet orphan of the night!—
Creation sleeps,
But its spirit keeps
Her virgin lamp alight;
Yet never a star in the heavens above
Pure as the soul of my lady love,
Pure as the troth I plight!
Where in the shining frame on high,
Where in the great design,
Where is the love in earth or sky
Like unto thine and mine?
Like unto mine and thine, love!
Like unto thine and mine!
(Dorothy appears on the terrace.)
DUET.
Dorothy.
Sweetly the morn doth break,
When love is nigh;
Hues of the rainbow take
Landscape and sky;
Gaily the sun doth shine
Over my head;
High heaven itself is mine,
Sorrow is dead.
Ever for thy dear sake
Happy am I;
Sweetly the morn doth break,
When love is nigh!
In my life's chalice, love,
Thou art the wine!
Dorothy.
Now shines the sun above,
Now art thou mine!
Both.
Hues of the rainbow take
Landscape and sky;
Sweetly the morn doth break,
When love is nigh!
Dorothy.
Kneel not to me!
Manners.
To whom else should I kneel?
A loyal subject bends before his queen;
And mine art thou!
Dorothy.
Hush! not so loud! Not long have I to stay.
Moments are precious.
Manners.
When they are with thee.
Dorothy.
Nay, let me speak; for I have much to say.
Our cousin Rupert comes to-day to wed me.
Manners.
Let twenty cousins come, I fear them not!
Thy word is pledged.
Dorothy.
And 'tis an easy task
To keep an oath one hath no will to break.
But what are vows, if they are vowed in vain?
My father will not hearken to thy suit.
Manners.
What says he?
Dorothy.
That thou must lay down thine arms,
Ere he will hearken.
Manners.
I, forswear the king?
Dorothy.
Oh, tell me, sweetheart, is thy love so great
That thou wouldst do this for thy true love's sake?
Manners.
Great is my love—greater than lord or king—
But there is one thing greater than my love.
False to myself, I should be false to thee,
And heaven would curse our love.
Nay, sweetheart mine, I will not make thy face—
My noonday sun—my morning, evening star—
A haunting spectre, symbol of my shame!
That is thine answer?
Manners.
There could be but one.
Dorothy.
Now am I thine for ever! Oh, my love,
That is the answer I had prayed of thee!
Hadst thou said aye, my love for thee had died.
My word I would have kept; but in my heart
Thine image would have fallen from its shrine.
Manners.
All angels guard thee!
Dorothy.
Hark! the tocsin bell!
Farewell, beloved!
Manners.
Sweetheart, fare thee well!
[Exeunt severally.
Enter Puritans.
Puritans.
Down with churches, down with steeples!
Down with love and down with marriage!
Down with all who keep a carriage!
Down with lord and down with lady—
Up with everything that's shady!
Down with landlords, down with land!
Whom the soil belongs to after,
We could never understand!
Pleasure—we can do without it;
Down with court and down with king;
And—just while we are about it—
Down with every blessed thing!
Enter Rupert Vernon.
Rupert.
My faithful friends, you have just been singing, with that
accuracy of time and purity of tone which characterize all your vocal
efforts, these admirable sentiments, amongst others, “Down with love,
and down with marriage; down with landlords, down with land!” And
truly these things are vanities—in the abstract; but in the concrete they
possess a certain substance. In the abstract, I, Rupert Vernon, am a
vanity.
Puritans.
Yea, verily.
Rupert.
But in the concrete, even I possess a certain substance.
Puritans.
Yea, verily.
Rupert.
These brief preliminary observations will have prepared
you for the announcement that I am about to marry and become a
landlord.
This be flat blasphemy!
Rupert.
I was once of that opinion myself. But ever since
it hath become a question whether my title to this highly attractive
residential property is not superior to that of my cousin, its present
occupant, I have given much attention to this subject. As I may
shortly be in a position to keep a carriage myself, I am not quite so
persuaded as I was of the necessity of “downing” with everybody who
indulges in that very harmless luxury.
Nicodemus
(lifting his hands).
Odd's fish! odd's fish!
Rupert.
I fail to see anything odd's fish about it. Then again,
our attitude with regard to the land question—is it quite sound? or is
it all sound and no sense?
Barnabas.
There be one land and there be one people, and to the
one people the one land belongeth.
Rupert.
Quite so, quite so, my good Barnabas. That is our way
of putting it—in public. But this is not the hustings, and as private
individuals we know perfectly well that there is more than one people—
in fact, there are a great many people; and how is the one land to
belong to all of them?
Simeon.
The state is the people. Let the land belong to the state.
Rupert.
Thou art minded that the occupier should pay his rent to
the state.
Puritans.
No rent! no rent!
Rupert.
But if the occupier is to pay no rent, then each occupier
becomes his own landlord.
Puritans.
Even so!
Rupert.
But in that case, you have more landlords than ever.
Puritans.
So we have!
(All scratch their heads.)
Rupert.
Nor is the subject of celibacy as simple as it appears. Ever
since it was arranged that the disputed title to the Haddon estates should
be settled by my marriage with fair Mistress Dorothy, my views upon
this matter also have undergone a change. I feel the need of female
sympathy. Nobody sympathizes with us, and when one comes to think
of it, why should they?
Puritans.
Why should they?
Rupert.
It must be admitted that we have made ourselves fairly
obnoxious of late. We have been particularly busy, and our business
has chiefly consisted in interfering with everybody else's. First and
foremost, we have abolished the playhouse.
Puritans.
Grace be praised!
Rupert.
Secondly, we have forbidden dance music in all places of
public resort.
Kill-Joy.
We have robbed the devil of his best tunes.
But to give that ingenious gentleman his due, he has to
some extent circumvented us; for, by the simple expedient of playing
the Old Hundredth in double quick time, he has succeeded in evolving
from that venerable air something suspiciously resembling the carnal
and pernicious polka.
(Puritans groan.)
Thirdly, to the end that none
shall profane the Sabbath by enjoying it, or shall imperil his soul by
improving his mind, we have shut all museums, parks, and picture
galleries, and turned the day of rest into a night of rust.
Puritans.
Grace be praised!
Rupert.
Fourthly, having deprived the populace of all means of
innocent recreation, we have compelled them to seek solace in the consumption
of strong drink.
Nicodemus.
Nay, verily; have we not closed all inns and taverns?
Rupert.
It is true that wholesome and necessary refreshment, either
for man or beast, can no longer be procured in an open and honourable
fashion; but I can give you my personal assurance that there exist
scores of places where any quantity of deleterious concoctions can be
obtained in a stealthy and disreputable manner.
Puritans
(with unction).
Grace be praised!
Barnabas.
Verily, these be notable good works.
Rupert.
But who's the better for them, Barnabas? Who is the
better for us? I will go a step further. Are we the better for ourselves?
Puritans
(look at one another).
Ask us another!
Rupert.
I will ask you another. Are we comely to look upon?
Puritans.
Nay, verily!
Rupert.
Do we not consistently do everything we can to make
everybody about us uncomfortable?
Puritans.
Yea, verily.
Rupert.
Do we enjoy ourselves?
Kill-Joy.
All life is sack-cloth and ashes.
Simeon.
But our reward is to come!
Rupert.
Are ye quite sure of that? I have no wish to pose as an
alarmist, but suppose we are making a bad debt? After a life spent in
the mortification of the flesh, it would be a crowning mortification if it
turned out that the flesh was not meant to be mortified; and it would
be peculiarly irritating to discover that the flesh was intended to enjoy
itself at the precise moment when we had no longer any flesh to enjoy.
Barnabas.
Marry come up!
Rupert.
Well, Barnabas, continue. Let us suppose, for the sake
of argument, that “marry” did “come up”—what then?
Barnabas.
I have nought more to say.
Rupert.
Then hold thy peace, and hearken to a wiser tongue than
thine.
And it may be read
In many a trusty tome,
How, when augurs met
On the parapet
Of the walls of ancient Rome,
As the two passed by,
Each winked an eye
With a candour confidential,
Or stroked his nose—
Which, goodness knows—
But it isn't at all essential.
For every man,
Since the world began,
Had his idiosyncrasee,
And to lunch off a moan
And to dine on a groan
With a trickling tear for tea—
Well, it may suit you
From your point of view,
But it doesn't at all suit me!
As I don't rejoice
In a deep bass voice—
Well, it doesn't at all suit me.
It's the best to be had;
And therefore, Q. E. D.,
Tho' it mayn't suit you
And a chosen few,
It's a good enough world for me
That we needn't go
So far as to ancient Rome,
For it just occurs
Unto me, good sirs,
There are humbugs nearer home.
When you style the spheres
A vale of tears,
Don't you rather beg the question?
Remember, bards,
It's on the cards,
It is nothing but indigestion.
For every man,
Since the world began,
Had his little infirmitee,
And is apt to mistake
What is only an ache
For profound philosophee
He sublimely thinks,
But a man very much like me!
Not a demon fell,
Or an archangel,
But a man very much like me.
[Exeunt.
Re-enter Dorcas and Chorus.
FINALE.
Chorus.
To meet the bonny bride,
Let all the gates of Haddon
Their portals open wide!
Your breath together draw!
Prepare to bid him welcome
With a hip, hip, hip—oh, law!
(All avert their faces at the sight of the Puritans.)
Rupert.
Our first appearance is not a success.
Simeon.
Well, not a triumph.
Nicodemus.
A succès d'estime.
Barnabas.
Or less.
Rupert.
Ladies, fair, I pray you,
Do not be afraid;
Let us not dismay you,
We but ply our trade.
Puritans.
Do not so disdain us,
We but ply our trade!
Chorus.
Tho' the objects pain us,
They but ply their trade.
Rupert.
Once we close the portals,
Once we shut the shop,
We're like other mortals,
Out upon the hop!
Puritans.
Out upon the hop!
Once they close the portals,
Once they shut the shop,
They're like other mortals,
Out upon the hop!
Rupert.
I pray you, pretty ladies,
Before this audience ends,
To let me do the honours
And introduce my friends.
Chorus.
Enough! enough! we have suffered galore,
We cannot suffer more!
Oh, let's see the back of you,
Every man-jack of you,
All of you sillies and all of you sights!
The sort of old fogies
That bob up like bogies,
And keep one awake in the dead of the nights.
Get away! get away! get away!
(They go up in dudgeon.)
Rupert
(to Audience).
That I expected neither more nor less.
My faithful friends, I do not mind confessing
To all of you, whom I am now addressing,
That, as a lot, you are not prepossessing.
It's no use blinking it!
Puritans.
We were just thinking it!
Rupert.
Ladies, pretty ladies, second thoughts are best;
Pregnant is the proverb, time's the only test.
Come, ladies fair
Beyond compare,
And list to my confessions;
Be warned by me,
And never be
Deceived by first impressions.
Men.
Go, ladies fair/Beyond compare—
Girls.
Come, ladies fair/Beyond compare—
Chorus.
And list to his confessions.
When I was but a little lad,
And cake and toffee made me glad,
And high the sun at noon!
My mother came to me one day,
When I was in the field at play,
With jam upon a spoon.
It looked so nice, I thought not twice,
The jam had vanished in a trice—
Quite frank are these confessions!
Alas, the jam concealed a pill
Which made me very, very ill—
Deceived by first impressions!
Chorus.
Oh, joy! the jam concealed a pill
Which made him very, very ill—
Deceived by first impressions!
Rupert.
Quoth Dr. Syntax, one fine day,
“Rupert, I have a word to say.”
(I had just told a cram.)
So tenderly he took my hand,
His tone was so polite and bland,
I followed like a lamb.
But once upstairs his manner freezed,
And all at once he seemed displeased,
As with Æneas, Dido!
Then, quick as thought he seized a birch
And fairly knocked me off my perch—
Whack, whack, whack-fol-de-riddle-i-do!
Chorus.
Whack-fol-de-riddle-i-do!
Rupert.
Now, ladies fair
Beyond compare,
Be warned by my confessions;
You surely see
The vanity—
Chorus.
Of trusting first impressions.
Whack, whack, whack-fol-de-riddle-i-do!
Re-enter Sir George, Lady Vernon and Dorothy.
Sir George.
Hail, cousin Rupert, welcome to our heart!
Though scarce we know thee in this habit homely.
Rupert.
It doth not suit me, but before we part
I hope to change it for a garb more comely.
Lady Vernon.
A bridegroom's?
Rupert.
Aye, if this sweet maiden wills
Sir George.
This maiden aye her father's wish fulfils.
Cousin fair, to thee I offer
Soul and body, heart and hand.
Sir George.
In exchange, to thee we proffer
Beauty, duty, house and land.
Lady Vernon.
Husband, hear me! husband, listen!
Let our daughter's heart reply.
In her eyes the teardrops glisten.
If she wed him, she will die!
Dorothy.
Father, hear me; father, listen!
If I wed him, I shall die!
Lady Vernon, Dorcas.
Father, hear me; father, listen!/Husband, hear her; husband, listen!
Only hear her, only listen!/If she wed him, she will die!
Dorothy, Lady Vernon and Chorus.
If I wed him, I shall die!/If she wed him, she will die!
Dorothy.
As thou hast taught me to,
I seemed to hear the angels say,
“To thine own heart be true.”
Heaven breathes it every day,
To all who have the ears to hear,
The wisdom to obey.
It rings all nature through;
For ever, in the angels' sight,
To thine own heart be true.
And cloud the skies,
And thorns where roses grew;
Come sun or snow,
Come weal or woe,
To thine own heart be true!
Chorus.
Though storms uprise, &c.
Dorothy
(kneels).
Father, forgive!
Sir George.
Rise! to thy chamber, thou rebellious maid!
My will is law, and law must be obeyed.
Few are my needs;
I ask not words of duty, I ask deeds.
Away, away!
She doth but stay/Farewell to say!
Sir George.
Away, away!
No longer art thou daughter mine!
Dorcas.
Sweet mistress, all my heart is thine!
Rupert and Puritans.
We are refused!
Chorus.
You are! you are!
Rupert and Puritans.
A plague upon our natal star!
Sir George, Dorothy, Dorcas, Puritans.
Away! Away!/Sir, I obey!/Oh, fateful day!/Dismay! Dismay!
Omnes.
Thy duty, with unerring hand,
Dictates the rightful way!
Sir George, Rupert, and Puritans.
It is a father's to command!
The Rest.
It is for conscience to command!
Dorothy. The Rest.
I dare not disobey!/Dare not to disobey!
| An Original Light English Opera, in Three Acts. Entitled Haddon Hall | |