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Bentley's Miscellany, Volume II
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(A rumbling noise heard underneath, attended by a disagreeable vapour.)
Policeman.– Zounds! what is this? it smothers me almost.
Is it the gas-pipe?
Capt. C. No, dash my wig! a ghost!
(Slow music. Apparition of Old Clipclose rises through the stage, dressed in a white shirt, and scarlet nightcap.)
Roundelay —Ghost and Company.
("Good morrow to you, Madam Joan.")
Ghost
All in the family way,
Whack-fal-li, fal-la-di-day!
Are you met here to take tea?
Whack-fal-li, &c.
Or is it love-making you're come?
Tol-de-re-lol, &c.
Or to keep clear away from a bum?
Whack-fal-li, &c.
Miss S
Oh, no, sir! we're going to jail,
Whack-fal-li, &c.
Unless, Mister Ghost, you'll go bail,
Whack-fal-li, &c.
Policeman
A spectre, Miss S. will not do,
Whack-fal-li, &c.
(To the Ghost.)
Where the blazes! should we look for you?
Whack-fal-li, &c.
(Enter Capt. C's four wives.)
1st Wife
Ah, Terry, you traitor, you're there!
Whack-fal-li, &c.
2nd Wife
As usual, deceiving the fair!
Whack-fal-li, &c.
3rd Wife
You'll pay dear enough for your pranks!
Whack-fal-li, &c.
4th Wife
You're broke, and reduced to the ranks!
Whack-fal-li, &c.
(Capt. C. seems thunderstruck, grinds his teeth passionately, then strikes his forehead, and sings.)
Air —Capt. C.– ("The night before Larey was stretch'd.")
Capt. C
By St. Patrick, I'm done for, at last!
From a captain come down to a private.
Terry Connor, your glory is past;
A very nice pass to arrive at!
(To the Ghost.)
I say, you old rum-looking swell,
I would deem it a favour, and civil,
In spite of your sulphur'ous smell,
To take me down stairs to the devil,
And get me a troop in his guards.
Ghost (to the Capt.) – Shut your potato-trap! we still refuse —
The corps's so moral – Life-Guardsmen and Blues.
4th Wife.– Cheer up, my Connor; 'twas in jest I spoke,
When I affirm'd my best beloved was broke.
Ghost (addressing the company).– Ladies and Gemmen, give the ghost a hearance,
As this, his first, must be his last appearance.
(To Mr. and Mrs. Clipclose) – Bent upon wedlock, and an heir, to vex ye,
If toasted cheese had not brought apoplexy,
I died asleep, and left my hard-won riches;
Search the left pocket of my dark drab breeches;
Open the safe, and there you'll find my will;
Deal for cash only and stick to Ludgate-hill;
Watch the apprentices, and lock the till;
And quit the turf, the finish, and the mill;
Turn a new leaf, and leave off former sins;
Pay the pieman, and mend young "All-hot's" tins.
Mr. C. (doubtfully.) – Did you die rich, dad?
Ghost. Rich as any Jew;
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Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
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