SONGS, CHORUSSES, &c. IN THE CAMPAIGN; OR,
Love in the East-Indies.
A COMIC OPERA. AS PERFORMED AT THE
THEATRE-ROYAL,
IN COVENT-GARDEN.
Written by Captain JEPHSON.
LONDON: Printed for T. CADELL, in the Strand. M.DCC.LXXXV.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
General Howitzer,
Mr. QUICK.
Captain Farquar,
Mr. JOHNSTONE.
Saib,
Mrs. KENNEDY.
Lieutenant Sulphur,
Mr. DAVIES.
Ensign Flag,
Mr. CU
T
.
M'Saunderson,
Mr. FEARON.
Gregory (or Tippoo)
Mr. EDWIN.
Serjeants,
Rifle
Mr. DARLEY.
Drill
Mr. DOYLE.
Corporals
Fuzee
Mr. THOMPSON.
Squad
Mr. WEWITZER.
Mo
tfort,
Mr. HELME.
Highlander,
Mr. S
NS.
Miss Lucy Seymour,
Mrs. BANNISTER.
Miss Maria M'Saunderson,
Mrs. MARTYR.
Susan,
Mrs. WILSON.
THE CAMPAIGN, &c.
ACT I.
CHORUS.—
LET the voice of triumph rise,
To hail with songs of joy this happy morn;
On conquest's purple pinions borne,
The martial sound shall reach the skies.
Where the sun points his sloping ray,
The burnish'd helm and spear with transient gleam,
Glittering to the orient beam,
With brighter radiance gild the day.
CHORUS.—
Officers.
When glory invites us,
No danger alarms,
When honour excites us,
No pleasure has charms;
Tho' beauty enthralls us,
Her raptures we fly,
When bright glory calls us
To conquer or die.
His country requiring, nor wit, wine, nor love,
The heart of a soldier from honour can move.
Tho' beauty may charm him, his bold deeds proclaim,
Who sighs for his nymph, yet will bleed for his fame.
SONG.—
WHEN hope to raise the drooping heart,
With flattering prospects points the scene,
Weak is the bliss she can impart,
For hope is ever mix'd with pain.
II.
Around the couch with roses spread,
Where the sweet nymph reclines her head;
Still her pale sisters doubt and fear,
With trembling pinions flutter near.
SONG.—
YET know that pity's tender sighs
Can this soften'd bosom swell,
For when one faithful lover dies,
Thus I ring his knell:
Farewell, farewell,
Ding, ding, dong, bell.
But when another swain appears,
Doom'd to fill the vacant place,
I dry my eyes, for constant tears
Serve but to spoil the face.
SONG—
HARK ye, my dear, but don't tell,
Tho' my Daddy may try to persuade,
La, la, la, la!
I'll never lead apes in hell,
La, la, la, la!
As I must if I die an old maid.
II.
Coy maids oft' frown and deny,
When the youth of their hearts speak his mind;
Yet maids they wish not to die,
La, la, la, la!
And that truth perhaps shortly you'll find.
SONG—
IN Carlow town there liv'd a maid,
More fair than flowers at day-break;
Their vows contending lovers paid,
But none of marriage dar'd speak.
Still with a sigh,
'Twas Oh, I die!
Each day my passion's stronger:
When sprightly Nancy straight would say,
You'll die, dear sir, the Irish way,
To live a little longer.
II.
At length grown jealous, Venus cries,
This pride is past all bearing;
And straight sent Mars down from the skies
In form of Captain Daring.
First with a sigh,
He cried I die—
The god found passion stronger:
And sprightly Nancy still did say,
You'll die, dear sir, the Irish way,
To live a little longer.
III.
At length, like soldier bold he press'd,
And quickly saw by Nancy
The snow was thaw'd all in her breast,
A soldier caught her fancy:
With downcast eye,
She breath'd a sigh,
Her passions still grew stronger;
'Till Nancy was oblig'd to say,
I'll die myself the Irish way,
To live a little longer.
SONG.—
SWEET is the blackbird's whistled note,
Sweet the thrush's mellow song;
While the wood-lark's liquid throat
Pours the warbled strain along,
Sweet the music of the vocal grove,
Sweeter the voice of her I love.
SONG.—
PRAY what has a promise in it,
If the heart be not sincere?
Bubble of the present minute,
Melting soon in empty air.
II.
Men still strive to over-reach us,
When we cheat the silly elves;
Since we practise, what they teach us,
Let them only blame themselves.
SONG.—
KEEP off if you vex a woman,
'Till she gives her passion vent;
In her fury she spares no man,
But her tongue goes click and clack;
Click, click, clack; and ticka, ticke, tack,
'Till her rage in noise is spent.
II.
Women, when the fidgets seize 'em,
Ride one like a founder'd nag:
They are gentle, 'till you teize 'em;
Then their tongue goes, click and clack;
Click, click, clack; and ticka, ticke, tack,
'Till it can no longer wag.
SONG.—
FLATTERING hope, no more deceive
,
Wherefore will you haunt thy breast?
Fond deluder, leave, Oh, leave me,
I can never more be blest.
II.
Ah! Sweet Syren, lull no more
My senses with thy magic strain;
The fancied dream of bliss is o'er,
And now I wake to real pain.
END OF THE FIRST ACT.
ACT II.
SONG.—
A Breast cold to love, is no where to be found,
The grave and the gay all alike feel the wound;
In vain the sweet poison we'd shun, or we'd hide,
It ebbs and it flows in the heart like a tide.
Oh love, sooth my heart.
II.
Doubt and fear are the guards that still wait upon love,
In absence what pains two fond bosoms must prove!
But the moment the cloud is remov'd from the sight,
It's a whole year of sunshine, for one single night.
Oh love, sooth my heart.
II.
The sun o'er our heads, that in glory now shines,
Ripes the di'mond and gold, in rich India's sweet mines;
But a gem lights the bosom of her I adore,
Which will sparkle when di'monds and gold are no more.
Oh love, sooth my heart.
SONG.—
WOMEN's tongues in motion,
Are restless as the ocean;
For when their clack
Begins to crack,
No mortal can the blow shun.
II.
Female truth's a fable,
The widow in her fable
Ne'er sighs in bed,
For husbands dead,
But those alive and able.
III.
Woman's heart's a riddle,
With men they toil and fiddle;
Then here they skip,
And there they trip
Like geese upon a griddle.
IV.
Maids when with lads they spark it,
Wou'd still the golden mark hit:
The fairest toast
Asks, who bids most,
Like cattle brought to market.
DUETT.—
Susan
and
Gregory.
SUSAN, will you love me?
No, no, no.
Surely you have impudence, all impupudence exceeding.
You must kiss me, Susan,
No, no, no.
Marry set you up, Sir, I prithee let me go,
Think not that one of my breeding
Ever will descend so low.
Stay my dear, you must not go,
Come this anger's all pretending;
Sure I know you, love me.
No, no, no.
You'll see Mr. Simpleton what it will end in.
Let us kiss and friends then.
No, no, no,
Never, never, Lord how can you teaze a body so?
SONG.—
Wherefore languish,
Pale with anguish?
Tho' she swears she'll ne'er be kind,
Don't believe her,
Maids are ever
Gently forc'd to change their mind.
II.
Then take courage,
Mind not her rage,
Tho' she frowning answer no!
If she's tender,
She'll surrender,
If she's tough, e'en let her go.
SONG,
(Drill) and
CHORUS.
COME hither, all ye lads,
Who lead unhappy lives,
Whom bailiffs hunt, or duns molest,
Or scolding wives.
To the standard all advancing,
Drink in plenty, singing dancing;
The drum calls away,
My lads no longer stay.
To the standard &c.
II
All ye to cruel masters
Bound in servile chains,
Who make you work
Like Jew or Turk,
And starve you for your pains.
To the standard, &c.
SONG.—
MERRILY rolls the soldiers life;
Come, my brave boys, all fill your glasses;
Joy succeeds to toil and strife,
Fill to the brim a health to our lasses.
While jovial thus we laugh and sing,
The circling hours new pleasures bring:
Merrily, merrily, frolic and play,
And sport the cares of life away.
Laughs.
SONG.—
THO' to eating and sleeping a stranger,
He gives me no thanks but a blow or a kick,
Ty'd up like a dog in a manger;
But my collar I've slipt and I'll play him a trick:
His house but a cage is,
His beggarly wages,
Sour crout and sausages,
I pitch to old Nick.
II.
Tho' I work like a mule or a neger,
Till my heart like my coat to tatters is rent;
My visage pale, hollow and meagre,
My stomach and guts still doom'd to keep lent:
Tho' toiling and drudging,
Yet sour and in dudgeon,
The cross old curmudgeon
Is never content.
SONG.—
THO' now you saucy and proud are,
You sot, too late you'll find,
When food for ball and powder,
You've left your brains behind.
You fool, when hunger pinches,
You'll rot and die by inches,
Glad for a morsel to beg,
Tho' now you saucy and proud are,
Propp'd on a wooden leg!
SONG.—
ZOUNDS! do not lay so hard on!
Pox take you all; unhand me, oh!
Good sir, I ask your pardon,
I'll do as you command me, oh!
Hold, hold, sir,
Behold, sir,
My sides all black and blue are grown;
Your ferkins,
And jerkins,
Would wear me soon to skin and bone.
You've beat me to a jelly,
My heart with those disasters
Is sunk into my belly.
Hold, hold, &c.
SONG.—
'TWAS not his shape or air,
So smart and debonair,
That stole my heart away;
Wit, or speaking eyes,
Vows, or melting sighs,
'Twas something, I knew not what;
'Twas neither this or that;
Something I cannot say.
SONG.—
OH, chide not, my charmer, nor think me a rover,
A Soldier, of course, is a general lover;
With a row dow, stand clear all,
Ye beauties, both high and low;
Oh, in love still I must fall,
Sweet creatures, where'er I go.
II.
One day I bow down to the toasts of the city,
And next am in love with a bar-maid, if ptetty.
With a row dow, &c
III.
Those eyes, and those lips like two ripe budding roses,
To temptation still my heart it exposes.
With a row dow, &c.
IV.
I meet beauties like you, and my fancy they bother,
And make me adore your sweet self in another.
With a row dow, &c.
SONG.—
FROM tree to tree, from flow'r to flow'r,
The inconstant Zephyr strays;
Not e'en the sweetest rose has pow'r
To fix his wand'ring breeze.
II.
The faithful stream that round yon hill
Its winding current leads,
In Its first channel murmurs still,
Nor roves to distant meads.
III.
Ah, heedless youth, behold in these
The emblems of our flame;
Thine, rover, is the wand'ring breeze,
And mine the faithful stream.
DUETT.—
IF you would know what pain it is to part,
Ask, ask, this bleeding heart,
That almost breaks when I must leave thee!
To you I'll still prove true till death,
And then I'll spend my latest breath
In sighs, my love, that I must leave thee.
END OF ACT SECOND.
ACT III.
SONG.—
FAR hence away
Banish care and sorrow;
Laugh and sing to-day,
Death may come to-morrow;
Let's drink then while we may,
'Tis wine that makes us brisk and gay.
CHORUS.
'Tis wine, &c.
II.
Far.
Should Cupid's dart
Your lover wound and teaze you,
From the cruel smart
No power on earth can ease you,
'Till Bacchus aid impart;
'Tis wine that chears and warms the heart.
CHORUS.
'Tis wine, &c.
III.
Flag.
No bliss sincere
The gods on earth have granted;
Love brings despair,
And wealth by care is haunted.
True pleasure would you share,
In wine are joys unmix'd with care.
CHORUS.
In wine, &c.
SONG.—
THE dawn its pure blushes spreads over the ground,
While nature breathes fresh all the fragrance around,
The goldfinch and linnet sing blythe from the thorn,
And the lark sweetly carols his hymn to the morn.
II.
But the goldfinch and linnet now warble in vain,
And joyless to me is the sun-gilded plain;
Nor the sweet breathing morn, nor the songs of the grove,
Can soothe the fond bosom that's tortur'd by love.
QUARTETTO.
WITH mirth and good humour, a dance, and a song,
Let the eve like the morn glide with pleasure along,
And night from our bosoms all cares shall remove,
But the sweetest of cares, the soft tumults of love.
SONG.—
IF you wou'd learn to be a soldier,
Cock your hat fiercely and march wiih a bold air,
Fill all your thoughts with bloodshed and battle,
And make the air ring when your firelocks you rattle.
CHORUS.
Fal, lal, lal, &c.
II.
Squeeze back your shoulders, and thrust out your craw, Sir,
And strut to and fro like a stately jack-daw, Sir,
Look well all around you and cry to each stranger,
Answer, "who goes there?" or your life is in danger.
CHORUS.
Fal, lal, lal, &c.
AIR.—
Gregory. (The words by Mr. O'Keeffe.)
YE serving-men both great and small,
Of high and low degree,
As I stand here see my downfall,
And warning take by me.
Too late I find that to my cost,
Preferment all is vain,
I willingly resign my post,
To get my place again!
With a cut, slash, dash, and a gravy sop,
Hob, nob,
Tingle, gingle,
Then to wash the way down with a chirping drop.
II
Men I must kill with my firelock,
Who ne'er a man cou'd lick,
And never kill'd but once a cock,
And that was with my stick.
To such I ne'er wou'd turn my back,
So much I'll safely boast,
No drum need beat to the attack,
Of either boil'd or roast.
With a cut, &c.
III.
You ne'er shall say, away I ran
In such a glorious work;
I am a valiant trencher-man—
My weapons, knife and fork.
A rush I care not for the French;
What's Tippoo Saib to me?
Sweet Susan come, kind rosy wench!
My captain you shall be.
With a cut, &c.
SONG.—
I NOW am a slave and a tool,
Afraid of the stick and the rod;
No school-boy e'er trembled at school
As I do at Corporal Squad.
II.
I thought him as great as the King,
When he gave me a shilling, ecod!
But soon I will caper and sing,
And Old Nick may take Corporal Squad.
FINALE.
PEACE, mild peace, on seraphs wings,
Wafted o'er the distant main,
Every bliss propitious brings,
Pleasure sporting in her train.
War and frantic discord cease,
Cease to spread destruction round;
Drums redouble, trumpets sound,
To the welcome voice of peace.
THE END.