SCENE I. A Chamber.

LEAVE my infant in a basket at a gentleman's door, you villain? when I ordered that your wife shou'd bring it up with care and tenderness.

Why, sir, when my wife said it was my infant, and woudn't take charge on't, what was a poor honest peace-loving husband to do?

Well; come, your intelligence?

The babe was taken in and christen'd Tommy Jones—the gentleman of the house in­tended to do well by't; but being given to play, died insolvent; his family went to ruin, and poor Tommy to the parish—the lazy overseers farm'd the workhouse to the village butcher, who, to feed his calves, starved the children; [Page 2] here, like a young negro, he got hard work, many blows, and no learning.

And from this misery, a charitable tradesman took him prentice.

Yes, sir; served out his time with ho­nor; but his spirit too noble for a mechanic, he listed, and is this moment a gentleman common soldier in the foot-guards.

But how to find him out—?

That we're to find out—In my search I got acquainted with two honest soldier lads—Ned Lenox and Jack Sinclair, and they're to bring me among the rest—the serjeant major Tactic, that has got the pretty daughter, may know.—I'll run a hum upon him.

Nipperkin, you were my servant twenty years back; but since that you've been such a variety of rascal, there's no trusting you now.

I want no trust—give me a ready guinea.

To get drunk and neglect this bu­siness—no, discover my poor lost son, and you shall have a hundred, to settle you in a farm, sirrah.—John!

I must get off to Greenwich, ready to receive the Duke.

But, sir, I intend this evening visiting my old father at Chelsea—A little comfort for the honest soul.—

Chelsea! oh, your father a pensioner! well, there

but use every endea­vour to find the boy, mind.

You shall settle on me one hundred a [Page 3] year, or find the boy yourself. Lucky, that still keeping an eye to the lad's progress through life, I've this pull upon my old master—Till he bids more I'll not bring father and son together—now got loose from my wife, I'll make a good use of my time—damme, since I'm come to London, I'll drink like a foul, and divert myself with the girls;—if not, I'd be a man in a thousand!

SCENE II.
The Green Park.

Pleasant enough, on our march from Windsor, Lenox slipping a note into my hand, the instant I gave him one; but what says his.

‘Dear Sinclair, soon as off guard, walk into the park, I want to speak with you on particular business.’—Almost the very words of mine to him; he's my friend; I'll ask his ad­vice before I determine to marry Mary. Deter­mine! oh, my heart!

"I've a great deal to say to you"—and I've a great deal to say to him—Oh! he's here—Well, Sinclair, what's this affair?

Nay, what's your's with me?

Come, you tell first.

No, no; you lets hear.

Not a word from me till you—

I'm determin'd that you shall—come I'll not speak'till—

Now I beg you'll—

Then you must know, ha, ha, ha!

Why, we're like people in the street giving each other the way; but here I stop, and now you pass on.

Then, Ned, of all the girls in our town, to me there's none like Mary Tactic.

Why, I think she's a most charming pretty soul.

Ay, but I love her.

I know I love her.

Oh, you must mistake; its I that adore her.

Upon my word you're wrong; for I'm the man that wou'd die for her.

That's as much as to say you'd fight for her.

Any man but you.

Why, Lenox, I shou'dn't like to fight you.

But any other, I didn't mind how great;—Ay, damme, even the corporal.

Any fellow that dar'd to think of Mary.

Do you call me fellow, Jack?

Yes, you're a good fellow.

Was it to tell me that you loved Mary Tactic, that you desired me to meet you?

Was your only business but to let me know you lov'd her?

It was.

I've a greater regard for you than for all the men in our regiment put together.

I always thought you my friend, and [Page 8] I'm certain I'm your's—Let us leave it to Mary's own choice.

Why, true; it's a pity to teize a young woman that can never love one.

And it's foolish and ill-natured to stand in the way of another man's happiness, when we can't forward our own by it.

Here she comes; let's ask her in downright English.

Done.

Oh, Sinclair, did you see my father? Is that Lenox?

Ask her.

No, do you?

Mary, you know very well, that I think you a most charming girl.

Well, that's no fault of mine.

No, its no fault—for to be sure you can't help being the sweetest soul—you're sure Mary, I love you; but here's Jack Sinclair says he does.

Oh yes; he told me so.

Well; but didn't I tell you I loved you?

Well, and if you do, you can't help that, you know.

We don't want to quarrel, because that woudn't be friendly.

No; 'twou'dn't be like brother sol­diers; so, yourself confess which of us you love.

Ay, do, Mary, your word shall de­cide it.

Which of you I love! Upon my ho­nor that's very conceited of you both—a pretty decent sort of confession too for a girl to make; but certainly was I to marry, I must chuse only one.

Ah, but, Mary, wou'd you chuse one of us?

Indeed I wou'd.

Sweet girl, but which?

Ay, which, Mary?

Well, I will own it, if you'll both pro­mise not go fight sword and pistol up in Hyde-Park, as the officers do.

If you chuse Ned Lenox, may I be whipp'd if I wish him the least ill-will.

And, my lovely Mary, if you prefer Jack Sinclair to me, if I ever bear him a grudge for it, may I be drum'd out of the regiment.

Heigho! it's a severe task, but—

My dear fellow, I give you joy.

Was it any thing else but Mary, I cou'd—poor Lenox!

Ah, boys! Jack Sinclair, Ned Lenox, come from duty at Windsor—Rare changes since you've been last on the parade!

The roll-call.

Is that to muster the men? For what?

For what! Why, to draught out a detach­ment for Holland.

And do Sinclair and Lenox go?

To be sure, if so their lot be.

Oh heavens!

Mary! Ay, off to the parade! I see my daughter will have a soldier, but she can't have a better man—you, sir, run after that girl.

I'm a married man; and mus'nt run after the girls.

What, then you're married?

Yes, sir; and so is my wife, a poor woman, sir—I'm not yet worth quite a plumb, might have made my fortune by marriage, I have had my opportunities among the dear crea­tures.

I'll see if his majorship won't stand a glass of stout punch

Sir, I want to go abroad.

Why?

Because, then I sha'n't be at home—I've left my wife there.

Where?

Why, death and ounds! at Dorking in Surry.

Swear so, you rascal!

To shew you I'm fit for a soldier.

But what are you now?

Nothing; tho' I was every thing—an Auction-porter, Watchman, Town-crier, Mon­mouth-street Pluck-em-in, Playhouse Constable, Dog-stealer—High and Low-life, sir, from Guard of a Stage-coach, to Waiter in a Cyder-cellar—my days have been a round of "past ten o'clock"—"just a going"—"nobody bid more"—"oh yes, this is to give notice"—"pray [Page 15] walk in"—"handsome suit of clothes, fit you nicely"—"take care of your pockets"—

"here, boy!—poor fellow! Ponto, Ponto"—"your pint, sir—champaign, cacka­gay!"

So then, friend, you've come off from your wife to turn soldier?

Why, sir, she vex'd me up into such a passion, that I must beat somebody; so I thought it more honorable to flog the enemies of my country, than the wife of my bosom.

But how did she vex you?

Sir, I love a drop of ale—'t'other day, we had a mug—she puts it to her head; "my dear," says I, "s;top, the devil is painted at the bottom, and 'twill frighten you if you look on't"—says she "I defy the devil and all his works," and up she puts it—"hold, my love," says I, "you're a bit of a democrat, and it's his Majesty that's painted at the bottom" —"no," says she, "I'm a loyal subject, and I long to see the King's sweet face"—so, again, up went the jug, and the devil a drop she left me in it.

Ha, ha, ha! what's your name.

Nipperkin.—Mr. Nipperkin, sir.

Then, Mr. Nipperkin, we'll see if we can't make a soldier of you.

Oh, sir, that's as easy as making an attorney a rogue, or make this a strong arm, when its already at hand—make a soldier! hem! sir, you do the exercise capital I suppose, he, he, he! shew us a bit—wheel! to the right! stop, sir, till I chalk your arm.

Why, do you think I don't know my right from my left?

do you?

huzza! the serjeant major knows his right hand from his left—

Why, you dog, are you humming me?

Yes, sir.

SCENE III.

No, I can't see any one to give me a true account how they've gone on.

Oh, well, Lenox, and how? ay, tell us.

My unlucky fate! cursed chance.

Oh! then you are one of them that's draughted to go abroad in all these dangers.

And, Mary, do you think its that, that cou'd have vex'd me so? I see what a mean opinion you have of me—I now don't wonder at your prefering Jack Sinclair to me—you think I'm a cowardly poltroon, that wou'd rather stay at home in idleness, than go out to fight the battles for my King and Country.

No indeed, Lenox: I know you've a very good spirit—I didn't mean to disparage you; but I tremble to think of the dreadful slaughter those poor fellows may be exposed to.

Dreadful! Isn't it glory?

Oh, my Polly! we must part.

How!

The lot is cast, and I'm call'd away—I must leave you.

And can you? Oh my love!

What then, you go? you have the up­per hand of me in every thing. I must sneak about here in the park, like a watchman—my marches from story's gate to the stable yard, and all my war's, with the old women to take off their pattens; whilst you, led on by your Prince—I shall go distracted!

You've little cause to envy me—re­flect, I leave Mary, I leave her with you too—my rival—with you, that love, that deserve her so much better than myself.

Not 'list, you rascal! after swallowing a bowl of punch?

My dear sir, don't be in a passion—I have my reasons for both.

Your reasons, you rascal—

Death and ounds, sir, don't swear—but my reason's I wou'dn't turn soldier, because I hate fighting; and I drank up the punch, because I love drinking, that shews that I'm both a safe and a good companion.

You're an arch rascal, and I don't know what to make of you?

Then I'll tell you what you'd best do, sir.

What!

Giye me another bowl, sir, and let me alone.

Come, Sinclair, quick—you've but little time to prepare your knapsack.

Dear father, must he go?

To be sure.

Oh, certainly: he must go and protect us all. Egad, I'm like a minister of state; whilst I sit at peace at home over my bottle, I send another man out to fight, that I may enjoy it in comfort.

Mary, Sinclair and Lenox are honest lads—I know they both love you; but as the misery or happiness of marriage will chiefly affect you, I leave the choice of a husband entirely to yourself, my girl. If Lenox is the man, love favours him; but if Sinclair, what he loses in [Page 20] love, he must make up in honor—give him a kiss, and a few of my best ruffled shirts; and drop a tear, and that affair's settled.

Farewell

adieu!

Oh! my heart will break! dearest father, can't you get him off?

Child, I wish him too well even to attempt it.

Jack, don't think me a worthless fel­low, tho' I am shov'd aside, and you chosen for the post of honor—'tis only blind fortune has done it; for had she fix'd on me,—

No bouncing! indeed, I myself once took a French colonel by the nose—To be sure, at the time, I flourished one of Sharp's best patent concaves.

My love, besides your constancy, I rely on the generosity of Lenox; in my absence, don't avoid him; it will be my only comfort to reflect, that I have in England a faithful sweet­heart, and a true friend.

Hem;

"My Poll and my Partner Joe."

I don't know what you are; but you, are a very impudent fellow.

There you fib, for you know I'm a very impudent fellow.

Rub-a-dub, boys, hey, for Holland!

SCENE I.

Every circumstance turns out so con­trary to what might have made my friend Sin­clair happy, and perhaps banish for a time the thoughts of Mary from my mind. Since I've no place in Mary's affections, what's in England worth a thought?—I burn I'm mad with de­sire to follow my Prince.—But to be left stuck up here like a lamp-post, with an useless musket in my hand—I've a mind to put it to use—

—but my life's not my own—my country yet may want it.—For all Sinclair bid me see Mary, what now must he feel, on the reflection that he's left her behind with me?—Tho' I scorn to take advantage of his absence—I'll avoid the sight of her.

Tol, lol, lol!—Now, if I can get out thro' this same Buckingham Gate—

Who goes there?

Brandy—

You'd better give an answer.

To what?

To me.

Your question?

I ask'd who went there.

Then you ask'd a very silly question, [Page 25] when you might see it was a brave boy—Huzza!—the town's our own!

Damn your trifling! Give, this in­stant, a proper answer, or I'll fire—

Hold! Zounds, be quiet.—Is that your politeness?—Just under the very nose of the Court?—Fire! and wake the maids of honour—sweet creatures!—that may now be dreaming of the lords in waiting, and white rod, and gold stick, and such other grand affairs.

I'm in no jesting humour—Quick, speak!

'Sblood! are you deaf?—I'm speaking as quick as I can—Stop!—your firing will be petty-treason—our Gracious Sovereign may be at this moment in a sweet dream, that one of her beloved sons, her gallant Frederick, is re­turning crown'd [...]ith Laurels.

And I no hand in placing them on his brow!—By heavens I'll not stay—I'll follow the detachment, tho' they shoot me for a deserter—Hold!—this fellow may—why, it's Nipperkin—

Didn't I tell you it was a brave boy; yet you wou'dn't believe me, and be damn'd to you!—after getting so nobly drunk, to frighten me back into sobriety! and so I've now all to do over again.—Why, dam'me, you don't mind what trouble you give a poor man—

—Are you within?—Very well—I'll be with you, or you shall be with me.

Where were you going?

To the college—my father is a Chelsea pensioner; and about once a quarter, like a du­tiful son, I bring the honest gentleman a little brandy and tobacco, and such other nice dainties, to comfort his old soul—Oh, Lenox!

You're right to be kind to your father—Give me your coat.

"kind to my father!"—"Give me your coat!"—That's very odd talk at this time of night.

You take this—Quick!—

I fancy I look better in the King's coat than the King wou'd look in mine—

Give me your hat.

Sir, take your's off the block—

—There; now stand you in my place.

Did ever I think I shou'd have a place at Court?—"Who goes there?"—

—Speak, or, dam'me, I'll fire!—I'm in no jesting humour—talk! or I'll blow your brains over the canal, thro' the Horse-Guards, cross the way to Whitehall, into the lottery-wheels.

Silence!

The royal and affec­tionate parents send a darling son to face the perils of war, assert his country's honour!—What Eng­lishman wou'dn't follow the illustrious example—Hush! not a word.

Now that fellow's gone to commit a robbery in my coat, and I shall get hang'd for it: The gate's shut, and I can't get put to give [Page 27] my poor father his drop—Then I must give it to his poor son—

—I'll smoke a pipe too—

—Well, he didn't take my match, and my bottle of phosphorus—

—If my wife was here now, I shou'dn't have all this sport to myself—

—my chair produces good table drink.

But it's getting cool here, il fresco. I'll step into my parlour—

As my dear lover said, there can't be the least danger in paying some attention to poor Lenox whilst he's away.—He took on so at my refusing him, and the loss of his comrade, that I know he hasn't eat a morsel this blessed day. He has a tender and an honest heart, and sure no harm for me to try if I can comfort him.—The Park's got so still, he may eat and drink fome'at, as I'm sure he wo'nt come to me when he's reliev'd.—Lenox!—

—Oh! my heavens! if he isn't fallen asleep, and here's the corporal coming!—

—If he's caught so—Lenox!—

—"Take care of your pockets."

Get up.

"Past four o'clock!"

Sure he's been drinking to drive away his sorrows. Rise! Here's the guards!

Pray walk in, sir—I've a pretty coat will just fit you.

Eh! Sleep on your post! Halloa! Centry! Here'll be rare flogging work; take his arms! drag him up!

Fine cloudy morning!

Ay, dam'me, it will be a fine cloudy morning with you, peeping through the iron bars.

Dear Mr. Corporal—

Is that Miss Mary Tactic?

You know Lenox is a good soldier, and should be excused if he's a bit overtaken, consider, taking leave of his comrades; you know he's so well belov'd, and such a tempta­tion—then his spirits in such a state, a very little liquor might have intoxicated—

—That dogskin will make a pair of pumps.

My skin!—You'll see what the drummer will make of your dogskin.

Pray, don't inform the commanding officer.

Why, Miss Mary, you know it's not in my power to save him, if, as you say, he's brought to court-martial for this.

His royal highness is good and merci­ful;—I'm sure he'd consider so excellent a sol­dier as Lenox—Now, do let the poor fellow come to his senses, and say nothing of it.

But then I shou'd be punished my­self, Miss—Must give him up—Take him to the Savoy.

Unhappy creature!—and yet I'm ashamed of Lenox.—However, I'll make my [Page 30] father use all his interest for his pardon.—How have I been deceived in him! and how fortu­nate that my heart wasn't caught by his kind and obliging manners.—He loved me—he is Sin­clair's friend, and therefore has a right to my assistance.

Why, he wou'd stand a better chance of mercy from his royal highness—his sentence here might be death.—I'll pretend not to know but he's one of the draughts that has staid be­hind; and to colour it, I'll neither see nor talk to him; but at day-break, a guard shall take him to Greenwich time enough before the men embark.

SCENE II.

No such thing, friend.

Do, dear, good, worthy sir, let me go on board your tender.

But for what?

To partake of the glorious expedition of my comrades.

Your comrades!—Ay, what, are you a soldier?

—Yes—sir—no—I am—

if a soldier, and not one of the drafted men, what brings you to Greenwich? and if you belong to the detachment, why out of your regimentals, and not with your corps?

Sir, I am, as yet, only in wish a sol­dier—I said "my comrades," because I'm ac­quainted with a number of the men; and I've conceived such a friendship for some of the ho­nest sellows, that I can't turn my head to any business, with the grief of being separated from them—only let me go, and you'll see how I'll fight.

But do you know the cause?

Humanity.—To stop the ravages of war abroad, secure the blessings of peace, com­merce, plenty and happiness at home to Old England, where a good king is the common [Page 32] parent—every man captain of his castle, and the laws to protect his property, wife and chil­dren. Frenchmen give Britons freedom!—But huzza!—we'll pluck Sprigs of Laurel from their Tree of Liberty.

Well, my lad, I must say I admire your spirit, and I'm sorry we can't take you; but un­disciplin'd recruits won't do.—The nature of the service we're order'd on, requires pick'd men.

There's a boat now going off—By heavens I will get aboard.

By heavens you shall not tho'—Holloa!—Stop that fellow—keep him out of the boat.

Sir, his Royal Highness's aid-du-camp wou'd speak with you.

I come.—

—Some­thing in this young fellow that strikes me ex­ceedingly—

—No—the boat's gone without him, and there he walks melancholy away; and intimate with the soldiers!—Might perhaps have given me some clue to discover my son—I begin now to despair; for if my boy is still in any of those regiments, he must have chang'd his name.

Sir—

Oh, true.

The coming spring begins to make the country look delightful—The sweetest sea­son approaching, that even the birds join in love—and my love to leave me!

Those men loiter along the road—

Oh, your honour, I hope his High­ness isn't yet gone over to the ship!

Eh! What, my lass, do you, too, want to go and pull Sprigs of Laurel?

No, sir;—but it's about a young man, a soldier—

The devil's in the soldiers for bringing the women after them.—You're a modest, pretty looking thing—you foolish jade, what business have you with the young men?—Take your snivelling good bye on shore—no petticoats come on board my ship.—I advise you, child, to modesty and discretion; for your own for­wardness and folly contribute as often to the ruin of innocents, as the base arts of villainous seduction.

I believe that gentleman means well; but he shou'd have known who he was talking to—and even then, sweet and welcome is the gentle monitor; for what we listen to with plea­sure, [Page 35] we follow with delight.—I may chance to see my Sinclair again before he goes—I know he'll conquer; and when he returns—Oh! such a garland as I'll make him!—Aye, and he shall wear it too.

Oh! Lud!—if here isn't Sinclair and my [...]a­ther.

Zounds! how often will they halt?—Sinclair! Why do you run before the rank?

Don't you see my attraction?—Oh! my love!—(embraces Mary.)

Mary!—Now, girl, what has be­witched you to follow us?

My lovely, faithful soul! don't be angry with her.

Oh! I've something to tell you about Lenox—he is—

The men on their march—Get you out of their way, child—you'll see us at Green­wich.—(Shouts without.)

Oh sir, I've a dreadful boding of Mary's business.

Something about Lenox.

I see it—he's been base and treache­rous; and for all that, he seemingly resigned her: no sooner was my back turned, than he has dared to renew his addresses.

Plague of your nonsensical love and jealousy—mind your duty—run on and fall into your rank (pushes him off) with their sweethearts and friends, and stuff! I wish we had them all safe on board—some reasons tho' in Sinclair's suspicions! I had a good opinion of Lenox—but this violent friendship of your young solks, all a feather—give me an old friend.

SCENE III.

Chearly my boys, clear the gangway there! here's another boatfull—we'll bring you gentlemen of the red cloth along-side of the Frenchmen; I hope 'twill soon be our turn to take a spell at that work. We have a Prince too to lead us on—oh dam'me! how I long to pow­der their toupees.

Lenox in this cursed hobble?—Art ugly job, faith!

Father, won't you make the Duke forgive him?

I make Dukes forgive People! what does the girl take me for?

My beloved Mary, tell me this affair that brought you? ay, well, as I was gone, Lenox—

Oh! he is—

A villain!

How!

Be quiet—you wrong'd him in the love business—egad, poor Lenox has something else now to think of! Oh, yes, he'll be shot.

Who! sir! Mary, what has he done?

Is it possible! I had no idea that his life was in danger.

What's his crime, and where is he now?

He has slept on his guard, and he is now in irons at the Savoy.

Bring him along, an obstinate young scoundrel!

What's the matter, sir?

A blockhead that I've refused to take on board, jumps into the river, swims over to the ship; and there he's been found hiding him­self [Page 41] behind a hen-coop. A brave fellow—but we shou'd frighten him a little.

So, you wou'dn't take my word for it; but now you shall give an account of yourself before his Highness.

Why, it's Lenox?

One of the guards, sir.

Indeed! hold him in custody.

Ah! Sinclair, doesn't your heart bleed for your unhappy friend?

Why, how the devil did you shake off your irons and escape from the Savoy?

Major, I never was disgrac'd with irons, or in a jail.

Zounds! Mary, what story's this you've been telling us? Oh! I see it's all a slam, an excuse for her coming after us to Greenwich, and taking another parting kiss with your sweet­heart.

Indeed, father, I don't know what you mean; Lenox now, has got other cloaths on—but I'm sure I saw him taken into custody, prisoner by the Corporal—Think me—

so—artful—as—to—invent stories—only—to—compass—my—own—pleasure!

Nay, my love, don't weep—your father cannot suppose—

Well, Miss Mary, to oblige you, I've ordered Lenox to be brought before the Duke himself—oh! yonder they bring him.

Why, corporal, you're drunk too;—here they've brought him already.

I drunk! let me tell you, Major, I can be as sober on my duty, as any man.

Why, did you pull him from behind the hen-coop?

Hen-coop! Oh! you have been taking your drops! I say, I found Lenox on his guard most damnably disguised.

Well, you may find him there, disguis'd

You found me drunk! why, corporal, what's the matter with you?

'Tis Lenox! then who the devil have we got pris'ner yonder!

"Past four o'clock!"

Why, it's the joking rascal, who cajol'd me out of the bowl of punch.

Nipperkin! Oh! I see how this has been.

I'll have justice—they took my keg.

What, then you have been doing it? I thought so—and taken—I desire he mayn't be hang'd in my coat.

Young man, I've laid your case before his Royal Highness—tho' your quit­ing your post was a crime, that demands from military discipline, a severe punishment; yet, in [Page 43] consideration of your laudable motive, a brilliant example of noble ardour for your country's honor, he not only pardons you, but from your high character as an excellent soldier, presents you with this purse.

A purse for only swimming to—by the lord, I once swam from Chelsea-reach to Battersea bridge—give me.—

Nipperkin! why, who made a soldier of you? here, my lad!

A hen-coop! zounds to smuggie myself into a fight I'd hide behind a mouse trap.

I humbly thank his Highness—pardon is the utmost grace I cou'd hope for—my friend

you have never disobeyed orders—a more finished soldier, on the eve of being mar­ried too—and the Prince's bounty will be applied to a better purpose in contributing additional comforts to an amiable woman.

Zounds! they won't let me be generous—nobody'll give me purses to give away to poor families.

Sir, if I am only suffered but to go with my Prince, some future event may offer an occasion, really to signalize myself, and by merit win a reward, of which, I am now totally un­worthy.

A liberal minded fellow, faith! so, my lass, this your soldier laddie!

Oh, no, sir—I grant he deserves—ay, the most beautiful lady—but here's my humble choice.

Humble, indeed! yet I have reason to be proud with the friendship of Lenox, and the love of Mary.

Captain, lend me a guinea, I'll tell you a secret.

You drunken scoundrel, I'll break your head.

Well, I'can't return the compliment till you get one to break,

This boy's genero­sity has so wrought upon my heart, that I can't bear he should longer remain in this obscure wretchedness—hearky

down on your knees to the codger,

What do you mean?

Oh! what is this world come to! I bid a son ask his father's blessing, and he says holloa! death and ouns, what do you mean?

Son! this—

How!

I tell you, that's the boy in the basket, the child of charity, the prentice to—Mr. Da­rumple, the fiddle-case maker; the private soldier, that for glory prefers a French bullet to an Eng­lish plumb-pudding.

Sir, my birth has been a mystery—and is it thus explained?

It must be the deserted son—

Of an abandon'd father.

Nipperkin, you're now privileged—The service you've rendered me by this discovery—my boy a brave soldier!—must make a good officer.

Sir, my highest ambition is now to par­take the glories of the enterprize as a private, for if I am to be honour'd with promotion I'll first with the heart, hand and ardour of a British Soldier endeavour to deserve it.