But ever, for ever, her image shall last, I'll strip all the spring of its earliest bloom; On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, SONG.-BY A WOMAN. Pastorale. With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May When she is removed and shall never return? On the grave of Augusta these garlands be placed, And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb, CHORUS. On the grave of Augusta this garland be placed, Spoken by Mrs. Bulkley, in the character of Miss Hardcastle. WELL, having stooped to conquer with success, Our life is all a play, composed to please; 66 Her second act displays a livelier scene,— The unblushing bar-maid of a country inn, Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters. And quits her Nancy Dawson for Che Faro: Till, having lost in age the power to kill, She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille. } Intended to be spoken by Mrs. Bulkley and Miss Catley. Enters MRS. BULKLEY, who curtsies very low as beginning to speak. Then enters MISS CATLEY, who stands full before her, and curtsies to the Audience. MRS. BULKLEY. HOLD, Ma'am, your pardon. What's your business here? MISS CATLEY. The Epilogue. MRS. BULKLEY. The Epilogue? MISS CATLEY. Yes, the Epilogue, my dear. MRS. BULKLEY. Sure you mistake, Ma'am. The Epilogue, I bring it. MISS CATLEY. Excuse me, Ma'am. The author bid me sing it. Recitative. Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring, MRS. BULKLEY. Why, sure the girl's beside herself! an Epilogue of singing, A hopeful end, indeed, to such a blest beginning. Besides, a singer in a comic set Excuse me, Ma'am, I know the etiquette. MISS CATLEY. What if we leave it to the house? And she whose party's largest shall proceed. I've all the critics and the wits for me. MISS CATLEY. I'm for a different set:-Old men, whose trade is Recitative. Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling, Air.-Cotillon. Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever MRS. BULKLEY. Let all the old pay homage to your merit; Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain, To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here,— Lend me your hand: O fatal news to tell, Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle. MISS CATLEY. Ay, take your travellers—travellers indeed! Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed. Air.--A bonny young Lad is my Jockey. I sing to amuse you by night and by day, With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey, MRS. BULKLEY. Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit, Make but of all your fortune one va toute : Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, "I hold the odds.-Done, done, with you, with you." Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, 66 My Lord,-Your Lordship misconceives the case." Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner, "I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner: Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, MISS CATLEY. Air.-Ballinamony. Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack, For sure I don't wrong you-you seldom are slack, Still to amuse us inventive, And death is your only preventive : Your hands and your voices for me. |