THE CAMP: A MUSICAL ENTERTAINMENT BY RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN WITH THE HELP OF JOHN BURGOYNE

PROLOGUE.

Written by Richard Tickell, Esq,

The stage is still the mirror of the day,

Where fashion's forms in bright succession play:

True to its end, what image can it yield,

In times like these, but the embattled field?

What juster semblance than the glittering plains

Of village warriors, and heroic swains!

Invasions, battles, now fill rumour's breath,

From camp to fleets, from Plymouth to Coxheath.
Through every rank some panic terrors spread,

And each in various phrase express their dread.

At 'Change, no vulgar patriot passions fright

The firm and philosophic—Israelite!

Ask him his hopes, “ ’tis all de same to me!

I fix my wishes by my policy.

I’ll do you Keppel; or increase De Barters'"

You will, “ I’ll underwrite de Due de Chartres."

 Miss Tittup, gasping from her stiff French stays,

"Why if these French should come, we’ll have French plays:

Upon my word, I wish these wars would cease!"

Settling her tucker, while she sighs for peace.

With wilder throbs the glutton’s bosom beats,

Anxious and trembling for West India fleets:

Sir Gobble Greenfat felt, in pangs of death,

The ruling passion taint his parting breath:

Search in the latest as in all the past,

“Oh! save my turtle, Keppel!” was his last.

No pang like this the macaroni racks,

Calmly he dates the downfall of Almack's

“As Gads my judge, I shall be glad to see

Our Paris friends here—for variety.

The clubs are poor; let them their Louis bring,

Th’ invasion would be rather a good thing!"

Perish such fears! what can our arms oppose,

When female warriors join our martial beaux?

Fierce from the toilet the plumed bands appear;

Miss struts a major, ma’am a brigadier:

A spruce Bonduca simpers in the rear.

Unusual watch her femmes de chambre keep;

Militia phantoms haunt her in her sleep:

She starts, she wakes, she quivers, kneels and prays.

“Side-saddle my horse! ah, lace my stays!

Soft, 'twas but a dream! my fears are vain,

And Lady Minikin’s herself again.”

Yet hold, nor let false ridicule profane

These fair associates of th’ embattled plain:

Victorious wreaths their efforts justly claim,

Whose praise is triumph, and whose smiles are fame.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE,

AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE, OCT. 15, 1778.

Gage.....Mr. Parsons.

O'Daub ..... Mr. Moody.

Serjeant Drill ..... Mr. Bannister.

William ..... Mr. Webster.

Bouillard ..... Mr. Baddeley.

Commanider-in-chief ..... Mr. Farren.

Sir Harry Bouquet ..... Mr. Dodd.

Officers, Recruits, etc.

Nell ..... Mrs. Wrighten.

Lady Sash ..... Miss Farren.

Lady Plume ..... Mrs. Robinson.

Lady Gorget ..... Mrs. Cuyler.

Nancy ..... Miss Walpole.

Countrywomen, etc.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The Road near the Camp.

[Enter Old Man.]

Old Man.

Come along, neighbours, come along; we shall be too late for the suttlers’ market.

[Enter Second Man.]

2d Man.

Put on, put on, neighbours.—Here, Robin, where are you, boy?

Robin. [Behind.]

I'm coming, feather, as soon as I can get the colt up; for the plaguy beast is down again, and mother and chickens are all in the slough.

O. Man.

Why, is the colt down again?—You graceless dog, help your mother up.—Oh, neighbour Farrow has helped her up, I see.

[Enter Old Woman.]

O. Woman.

Husband, as sure as you are alive, that rogue of a boy drove the colt in the dirt for the purpose, and down we came with such a wang --

O. Man.

What a mercy it is the chickens escaped! ----Come, put on, neighbours.

[Enter Robin and Colt.]

Robin.

Why, feather, how could I help it?— The colt has not had an eye in his head these eight years.

O. Woman.

O, here comes our kinswoman, and her daughter     

[Enter Miss.]

Bless me, child! you are in such a heat, you’ll quite spoil your complexion.

Miss.

Lord, neighbours, you hurry one so.

2d Woman.

Put on, put on;—make haste, we shall be too late.—O dear, here comes Nell; and she’ll scold us all for cheating the soldiers.

3d Woman.

Damn that wench, she won’t cheat herself, nor let other honest people do it, if she can help it; and she says she likes a soldier so well she would sell them goods for nothing.

2d Man.

Come, neighbours, now we shall see what bargains your daughter will make at the Camp.

2d Woman.

Ay, ay, soldiers are testy cus­tomers—They won’t buy of the ugly ones ----O, here Nell comes.

[Enter Nell.]

Nell.

Why, how now? what you are consult­ing how you shall cheat the poor soldiers: for shame! for shame! how can you use the poor fellows so? a parcel of unfeeling wretches!— Poor fellows, that risk their lives to defend your property, and yet you make it your study to defraud them.

O. Woman.

It’s very hard, Nell, you won’t let us have a little picking among ’em.—What is it to you what we do?

Nell.

Yes, it is to me;— I never will bear to see a soldier cheated, with my eyes open. I love a soldier, and will always stand by them.

Miss.

Mind your own business, Nell.

Nell.

What’s that you say, Miss Minx?— Here’s a wench dressed out: the poor soldiers are forced to pay for all this finery, you impu­dent slut you.

2d Man.

Why, Nell, if you go on at this rate we’ll tell his worship, Mr. Gage, of you: he’s an exciseman, and a great friend to us poor folks.

Nell.

What’s that you say, master Grinder? Come forward, you sneaking, snivelling sot you. —I think your tricks are pretty well known.— Wasn’t you caught soaking eggs in lime and water to make them pass for new ones? and did not you sit in the stocks for robbing the squire’s rookery to make your pigeon pies?

2d Woman.

Well, well, we’ll tell Mr. Gage, and then what will he say to you?

Nell.

Tell Mr. Gage, will you?—he’s a pretty protector indeed; he’s a disgrace to his Ma­jesty’s inkhorn—while he seizes with one hand, he smuggles with the other.: ----Why, no longer ago than last summer, he was a broken attorney at Rochester, and came down here, and bought this place with his vote, and now he is both a smuggler and contractor. O’ my conscience, if I had the management of affairs, I would severely punish all such fellows, who would be so base as to cheat a poor soldier.

2d Woman.

If his worship was here, you dare not say so.—Here he comes, here he comes.— Now you’ll change your note.

Nell.

Will I?—you shall see if I do. No, no; I’ll tell him my mind: that’s always my way.

[Enter Gage.

All. Ah! Mr. Gage.

Gage.

Heyday! what’s the matter? What the plague, is there a civil war broke out among you?

Ist Woman.

Why, Mr. Gage, Nell here has been scolding us for cheating the soldiers.

2d Woman.

Yes, and says you encourage us in it.

Gage.

Encourage you! to be sure I do, in the way of trade.

All. Ay, in the way of trade.

Ist Woman.

Yes, and she has been rating the poor girl, and says I dress her up thus only to make the better bargains.

Gage.

And ecod you’re in the right of it; your mother is a sensible old woman. Well said, dame; put plenty in your baskets, and sell your wares at the sign of your daughter’s face.

1st Woman.

Ay, ay, so I say.

Gage.

Right—Soldiers are testy customers, and this is the market where the prettiest will always make the best bargains.

All.

Very true, very true.

Gage.

To be sure;—I hate to see an awkward gawky come sneaking into the market, with her damned half-price countenance, and is never able to get scarce double the value of her best goods.

Nell.

I can hold no longer—Are you not ashamed, you who are a contractor, and has the honour to carry his Majesty’s inkhorn at your button-hole, to teach these poor wretches all your court tricks?— I’11 tell you what—if I was to sit on a court-martial against such a fellow as you, you should have your deserts, from the pilfering suttler to the head contractor; you should have the cat o’ nine tails, and be forced to run the gauntlet, from Coxheath to Warley Common, that you should.

1st Man.

How durst you talk so saucily to his worship?

Nell.

Hold your tongue, or I’ll throttle you, you sheep-biter. [Collaring him.]

1st Man.

O Lord, your worship! if you don’t put her under an arrest, she’ll choke me.

Gage.

Come, Nell, hold your tongue, and I’ll give you a pound of smuggled hyson, and throw you a silk handkerchief into the bargain.

Nell.

Here’s a rogue!—Bear witness, neigh­bours, he has offered me a bribe;—a pound of tea. No, sir, take your pitiful present, and know that I am not to be bribed to screen your villanies by influence and corruption.

[Throws it at him.

Gage.

Don’t mind her; she’s mad, she talks treason. Away with you!—I’ll put everybody under an arrest that stays to listen to her.

All.

Ay, ay, she’s mad.—Come along; we shall be too late for market.

[Gage drives them all off.

Gage.

Here, Nell, will you take the tea? [Offers it to her.]

Nell.

No, sir, I won’t.

Gage.

Well, then, I will.

[Puts it in his pocket.]

AIR.

Nell.

Now coaxing, caressing,

Now wheedling, distressing,

As fortune delights to exalt or confound,

Her smile or her frown

Sets them up, knocks them down,

Turning, turning, turning as the wheel goes round.

O fie, Mr. Gage!

Quit the tricks of the age;

Scorn the slaves that to fortune, false fortune, are bound,

Their cringes and bows,

Protections and vows,

Turning, turning, &c.

[Exit Nell.]

Gage.

Foolish girl, not to accept a bribe, and follow the example of her betters ----But who have we here?

[Enter O’Daub.]

O’Daub.

Ah, my little Gage 1—to be sure I am not in luck; I will not want an interpreter to show me the views about here;—and by my shoul, I'll force you to accept my offer.

Gage.

Why, what’s your errand?

O'Daub.

Why, upon my conscience, a very dangerous one—Jack the Painter’s job was a fool to it:—I am come to take the Camp.

Gage.

The devil you are!

O’Daub.

Ay, and must bring it away with me in my pocket too.

Gage.

Indeed!

O’Daub.

Ay, here’s my military chest; these are my colours, you know.

Gage.

O, I guess your errand.

O'Daub.

Then, faith, it’s a very foolish one. You must know, I got so much credit at the fete champetre there, that little Roscius re­commended me to the managers of Drury-lane, and so now I am a sort of deputy superintendant under Mr. Lantemberg, the great painter that as soon as he executes a thing, I always design it after him, my jewel; so I’m going to take a side front view of it.

Gage.

What then, they are going to in­troduce the Camp on the stage, I suppose.

O’Daub.

To be sure you have hit it—Cox­heath by candle-light, my jewel.

Gage.

And will that answer?

O'Daub.

O, to be sure it will answer, when a jontleman can have a warm seat, and see the whole tote of it for two thirteens, and be com­fortable into the bargain.—Why it has cost me above three guineas already, and I came the cheapest way too; for three of us went halves in the Maidstone Dilly, my dear.

Gage.

Well, and how do you like the prospect?

O'Daub.

Upon my shoul, my jewel, I don’t know what to make on’t, so I am come to be a little farther off, that I may have a nearer view of it. I think it looks like my cousin O’Doiley’s great bleach-yard in the county of Antrim.— [Bouillard sings without.] Tunder and wounds! what outlandish creature is this coming here?

Gage.

O, that is Monsieur Bouillard, the suttler.

O’Daub.

Then perhaps he can help me to a bit of something to eat, for I feel a sort of craving in my stomach after my journey.

Gage. Why, he’s a very honest fellow, and will be happy in obliging you.—Oh, here he comes.

[Enter Bouillard.

Bouil.

Ah! begar, Monsieur Gage, I am glad I have found you: begar, I have been through Berkshire, Suffolk, and Yorkshire, and could not find you.

O'Daub.

Through Berkshire, Suffolk, and Yorkshire—What the devil does he mean?

Gage.

Oh, he means through the regiments.

Bouil.

Begar, Monsieur Gage, I must depend on you for supply. I have got one, two, tree brigade dinners bespoke, besides the fat aider­man and his lady from London.

Gage.

Then you must send out a party of cooks to forage at Maidstone.

Bouil.

Parbleu, Monsieur Gage, I must look to you; for begar, I have got nothing in de house to eat.

O’Daub.

Then the devil burn me if I come to dine with you, honey.

Bouill.

O, sire, I have got every ting for yon and Monsieur Gage. You shall have any ting you like in von moment!

O'Daub.

Ah, ha! I tank you, honey. But pray now, Mr. Blaud, if your own countrymen were to come over here, would not you be a little puzzled to know which side to be on?

Bouil.

Puzzled!—parbleu, Monsieur, I do assure you I love de English ver well, and vill never leave dem vile dey are victorious; and I do love mine own countrymen veiy well; but depend on it, Monsieur Gage, I vill always stay with de strongest.

Gage.

You see, Mr. O’Daub, my friend, Mon­sieur Bouillard, is divested of all national pre­judice, I assure you.

Bouil.

Prejudice! ----begar, I have too much honour ever to leave de English while dey do vin de battle. But, Monsieur Gage, vill you bring your friend, and taste my vine? I have got every ting for you and your friend. I assure you, Monsieur Gage, I vill never forsake de English, so long as dey are victorious; but if mine own countrymen were to come, and make de English run, I would run a little way with dem; and if mine own countrymen were likely to overtake dem, I would stop short, bow to dem, and say, how do you do, my ver good countrymen? By gar, I shall be ver glad to see you both; so come along——but depend on ipine honour, Monsieur Gage, I vill never leave de English vile dey do vin de battle—No, never, never! [Exit singing.

Gage.

Well said, Monsieur Bouillard.

O’Daub.

Your sarvant, Mr. Blaud; though, faith, to do him justice, he has forgot the fashion of his country; for when he is determined to be a rogue he is honest enough to own it. But pray, what connexion have you with the suttlers? You are no victualler here, are you?

Gage.

Not absolutely a victualler, but I deal in various articles.

O’Daub.

Indeed.

Gage.

Yes, but no business is done here only by contract.

O’Daub.

A contractor! Why, what the devil, you are not risen to such preferment as that sure? I never knew you was able to furnish any contract.

Gage.

Nothing more easy; the circumstance depends upon the quantity, not the quality; I got on very well lately, but at first it brought me in several confounded scrapes. ,

O’Daub.

As how?

Gage.

Why, I undertook to serve a regiment with hair powder.

O’Daub.

Hair powder! What, and you sent them flour, I suppose?

Gage.

Flour! no, no—-I should have saved nothing by that: I went to the fountain head —the pit, and gave them a plentiful stock of lime.

O’Daub.

Lime! brick and mortar lime?

Gage.

Yes, brick and mortar lime.

O'Daub.

And, what the plague, was not the cheat found out?

Gage.

Why at first it answered the purpose very well: while the weather was fine it did charmingly; but one field-day they were all caught in a fine soaking shower: the smoke ran along the lines; ecod their heads were all slack’d in an instant, and by the time they re­turned to the camp, damme if all their heads were not as smooth as an old half-crown.

O'Daub.

A very cross accident indeed.

Gage.

Yes, I stood a near chance of being tied up to the halberts; but I excused myself by saying they looked only like raw recruits before, but now they appeared like old veterans of service.

O’Daub.

But you lost your contract, I suppose.

Gage.

Yes, but I soon got another; a shaving contract to a company of grenadiers.

O’Daub.

’Faith, I never knew you practised that business.

Gage.

Never handled a razor in all my life: I shave by deputy; hired Sam Sickle down from London—an excellent hand! handles a razor like a scythe:—he’ll mow you down a regiment of beards in the beating a reveille.

O’Daub.

Upon my conscience, a pretty way this of working at second-hand. I wish myself could do a little by proxy.

Gage.

But come, what say you for something to eat, and a glass of my friend Bouillard’s wine, and drink his majesty’s health?

O'Daub.

With all my heart, my dear, and to the two camps, if you will.

Gage.

Two!—what two do you mean? O'Daub. Why, the one at Coxheath, and the

other at Drury-lane.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II.

A Grove near the Camp.

[Enter Two Countrymen.]

1st Coun.

I tell you I will certainly list; I ha’ made up my mind on’t.

2d Coun.

Well, well, I’ll say no more.

1st Coun.

Besides, the camp lies so convenient, I mayn’t have such another opportunity.

2d Coun.

Why, it’s main jolly to be sure, and all that so fair. Now, if I were to list, I should like hugely to belong to a regiment of horse, and here is one of the grandest troop coin’d lately. I see’d two of the officers, mighty de­licate looking gentlemen; they were drest quite different from the others: their jackets, indeed, are pretty much the same; but then they wear a sort of petticoat, as ’twere, with a large hat and feather, and a mortal sight of hair. I sup­pose now they are some of your outlandish troops; your foreign Hessians, or such like.

1st Coun.

Ay, like enough. Here comes the serjeant. Ecod, he can sing louder than his own drum. Zooks! see how brave they march. Well, walking is a mighty dull way of going, after all.

[Enter Serjeant, Drummer, Recruits, etc.

SONG.—SERJEANT.

Great Caesar, once renown’d in fame,

For a mighty arm, and a laurel brow,

With his veni, vidi, vici, came,

And he conquer’d the world with his row, dow, dow.

Chorus.

Row, dow, dow; row, dow, dow;

And he conquer’d the world, etc.

Then should our vaunting enemies come,

And winds and waves their cause allow,

By freedom’s flag we’ll beat our drum,

And they’ll fly from the sound of our row, dow, dow.

Row, dow, dow, &c.

Then come, my lads, our bounty share,

While honest hearts British valour avow;

In freedom’s cause to camp repair,

And follow the beat of my row, dow, dow.

Row, dow, dow, &c.

Serj.

Come, my lads, now is your time to serve the king, and make men of yourselves: well, my lad, what do you say?

2d Coun.

I canno’ leave my farm.

Serj.

Your farm!—what, would you plough and sow for the hungry Frenchmen to come and reap? Come, my lads! let your fields lie fallow this year, and I’ll ensure you double crops ever after. Why now, here's a fellow made for a soldier: there’s a leg for a spatterdash, withan eye like the king of Prussia.

1st Coun.

Ay, but, serjeant, I hanna’ the air.

Serj.

The air! O, we’ll soon learn you that: why now, here’s little Ralph; there’s a fellow for you; he has not been listed a fortnight, and see what a presence—there’s dignity! O, there is nothing like the drill for grace!

1st Coun.

Serjeant, I’m your man.

2d Coun.

And so am I.

Serj.

That’s right, my lads: this is much better than to be dragg’d away like a slave, or be scratch’d off the church door for the militia. Now you have present pay, and the bounty-money into the bargain. But come, my lads, let me ask you a few questions, and then the business is done.

TRIO.

Serj.

Yet ere you’re permitted to list with me,

Answer me straight twice questions three.

1st Coun.

No lies, master seijeant, we’ll tell unto you;

For tho’ we be poor lads, we’re honest and true.

Nell.

Well said, my lads. I am glad to see so many good hearts in the country.—O, but was not you saying one of your recruits knows me?

Serj.

O, yes, Nell, a lad from Suffolk. Hark’ye, where’s the Suffolk boy, as we call him? O, here he comes!

[Enter Nancy.]

Nancy.

Ah, serjeant, did you not begin to think you had lost me? but come, will you leave me a few minutes with Nelly?

Serj.

With all my heart. Come, my lads, let’s to the Heart of Oak, where we’ll drink his majesty’s health.

[Exit singing, The answer, etc. and two huzzas.]

Nancy.

Why, Nelly, don’t you know me?

Nell.

Know you! egad, I do not know whether I do or not—sure it can’t be—and yet, sure it is Nancy Granger?

Nancy.

It is her, my dear Nelly, who kisses you now with the truest sense of gratitude for your former kindness and friendship.

Nell.

My dear girl ----Odso! I must take care of my reputation.—But what in the name of fancy brings you here, and in this dress, child?

Nancy.

How can you. ask me that question, Nelly? You are no stranger to the love William and I have for each other: a few days would have united us for ever, had not cruel fate separated us; the regiment being ordered to march immediately, no resource was then left but my flying from my father’s house: I pro­cured a dress from one of our neighbours' sons, and that love which induced me to forsake my sex still supports me under every affliction. Fortunately, on my way, I met the serjeant, and after some entreaty was enlisted, and equipped as you see. What think you, Nell? does not my dress become me?

Nell.

Yes, indeed, I think you make a smart little soldier.

Nancy.

Why, indeed I ain rather under size; but I fancy in action I could do more real exe­cution than those who look bigger, and talk louder. But tell me, my dear Nelly, where is William? I long to see him: does he ever speak of his poor Nancy? sure he cannot be faithless.

Nell.

Why, really, Nancy, I have some doubts.

Nancy.

Heavens! is it possible?

Nell.

Ah, my poor little soldier, I only did it to try your affection. Your William is true, and worthy of your love.

Nancy.

You have made a greater shock on my spirits than even an army of Frenchmen could have done.

AIR.

When war’s alarms enticed my Willy from me,

My poor heart with grief did sigh:

Each fond remembrance brought fresh sorrow on me;

I waked ere yet the morn was nigh.

No other could delight him;

Ah! why did I e'er slight him,

Coldly answering his fond tale?

Which drove him far,

Amid the rage of war,

And left silly me thus to bewail.

But I no longer, though a maid forsaken,

Thus will mourn like yonder dove;

For ere the lark to-morrow shall awaken,

I will seek my absent love:

The hostile country over,

I’ll fly to seek my lover,

Scorning every threat’ning fear:

Nor distant shore,

Nor cannons’ roar,

Shall longer keep me from my dear.

Nell.

But, my dear girl, consider; do you think you can cheerfully go through the toil and fatigue, and not repine after your own happy situation you left behind you?

Nancy.

O no; I still must love, though I should regret the occasion of our difficulties.

Nell.

Difficulty!—Why then, marry him at the drum-head, and that will end all your difficulties.

AIR.

What can our wisest heads provide,

For the child we dote on dearly,

But a merry soul, and an honest heart

In a lad who loves her dearly;

Who with kisses and chat,

And all, all that,

Will soothe him late and early:

If the truth she tell,

When she knows him well,

She’ll swear she loves him dearly.

Let the prude at the name or sight of man

Pretend to rail severely;

But, alack-a-day! unseen she’ll play

With the lad who loves her dearly.

Say old men whatever they will,

’Tis a lover still

Makes day and night roll cheerly:

What makes our May All holiday,

But the lad we dote on dearly?

Nell.

Well, my dear Nancy, you must en­deavour to throw off that dress as soon as possible, I’ll tell you what,—here are some ladies in the camp, who condescend to notice me; I’ll endeavour to introduce you to them, and they may be of gfreat service to you: in the mean time, should you by chance meet with William, be sure you don’t discover yourself.— Hush! here is the serjeant.

[Enter Serjeant.

Serj.

Why, Nelly, how’s this? you have had a long conversation together. I began to think you had run away with my new recruit.

Nell.

O, there’s no great danger, serjeant; he’s no soldier for me: pray is he perfect in his exercise?

Serj. O, as handy a lad as ever was. Come, youngster, convince her.

[Nancy goes through the exercise.]

Nell.

Very well indeed; but, serjeant, I must beg of you to befriend him as much as you can, for my sake.

Serj. Any service in my power you may com­mand; but a soldier’s life is not the easiest in the world, so they ought to befriend each other.

TRIO.

O the joy! when the trumpets sound,

And the march beats around,

When the steed tears the ground,

And shouts to the skies resound!

On glittering arms the sunbeams playing,

Heighten the soldier’s charms:

The fife and the roll of the distant drum,

Cry hark! the enemy come!

To arms! the attack’s begun.

[Exeunt.

ACT II. SCENE I.

A Grove near the Camp.

[Enter Nell, speaking without.]

William! come to speak to him another time; sure nothing could be more lucky: however, I must obey their ladyships’ instructions, and keep him in ignorance, that they may be pre­sent at the discovery. Poor fellow! it’s almost a pity too, when one has it in one’s power to make him so happy.

[Enter William.]

Will.

I am sorry, Nell, to make you wait; but it was an old friend.

Nell.

Ay, ay, some one from Suffolk, I sup­pose, who has brought you news of your dear Nancy.

Will.

I wish it had: it’s unaccountable that I don’t hear from her.

Nell.

Unaccountable! not at all: I suppose she has changed her mind.

Will.

No, Nelly, that’s impossible; and you would think so had you heard how she plighted her faith to me, and vowed, notwithstanding her parents were my enemies, nothing but death should prevent our union.

Nell.

O, I beg your pardon: if her father and mother indeed are against you, you need not doubt her constancy. But come, don’t be melancholy. I tell you I want to have you stay somewhere near the inn, and perhaps I may bring you some intelligence of her.

Will.

How! dear.Nell?

Nell.

Though indeed I think you are very foolish to plague yourself so; for even had Nancy loved you well enough to have carried your knapsack, you would have been very imprudent to have suffered her.

Will.

Ay, but prudence, you know, is not a soldier’s virtue. It’s our business to hold life itself cheap, much more the comforts of it. Show me a young fellow in our regiment, who, if he gains the heart of a worthy girl, is afraid to marry her for want of a little wealth, and I would have him drummed out of the regiment for discretion.

Nell.

Very fine! but must not the poor giri share in all your fatigues and mishaps?

Will.

There, Nell, I own is the objection; but tenderness and affection may soften even these; yet if my Nancy ever makes the trial, though I may not be able to prevent her from undergoing hardships, I am sure my affection will make her wonder at their being called so. I wish I could once boast that the experiment was made.

AIR.

My Nancy quits the rural train

A camp’s distress to prove;

All other ills she can sustain

But living from her love:

Yet, dearest, though your soldier's there,

Would not your spirits fail,

To mark the hardships you must share,

Dear Nancy of the dale?

Or should you, love, each danger scorn,

Ah! how shall I secure

Your health, mid toils which you were born

To soothe, but not endure?

A thousand perils I must view,

A thousand ills assail;

Nor must I tremble e’en for you,

Dear Nancy of the dale.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II.

An open View near the Camp.

[Enter O’Daub.]

O'Daub.

Well, to be sure, this same camp is a pretty place, with their drums, and their fifes, and their gigs, and their marches, and their ladies in regimentals. Upon my conscience, I believe they’d form a troop of side-saddle cavaliy if there were any hopes of an invasion. But now I am alone by myself, 'tis time I should be after taking my plan; and here I see are some of my directions for it. [Pulls out a pocket-book and pencil.] I can’t think what it is makes my hand shake so, unless it is Mr. Blaud’s wine that is got into my head. So, so! let me study my orders a little, for I am not used to this business, O. P. and P. S. Who the devil is to understand that? O! here is the explanation: P. S. the prompter’s side, and O. P. opposite the prompter. So I’m to mark down the view as it is to be taken on one side, and the other. Very well; P. S. and O. P. Let me see. Somewhere here­about is certainly the best point to take it from.

[Retires.]

[Enter Serjeant and the Two Countrymen.]

1st Coun.

There, you rogues, there he is!

2d Coun.

Ay, ay, that’s him, sure enough: I have seen him skulking about these two days; if he ben’t a spy I’ll suffer hanging.

Serj.

He certainly must be a spy, by his drawing figures.

2d Coun.

Do seize on him, or the whole camp may be blown up before we are aware.

O'Daub.

Prompter’s side.

Serj.

Hush!—we shall convict him out of his own mouth.

O'Daub.

O yes, the star and garter must cer­tainly be P. S.

Serj.

P. S. What the devil does he say?

2d Coun.

Treason, you may be sure, by your not understanding him.

O'Daub.

And then O. P. will have the ad­vantage.

Seij.

O. P. That’s the Old Pretender.—A damn’d jacobite spy, my life on’t.

1st Coun.

And P. S. is Prince Charles, I sup­pose.

Serj.

No, you fool; P. S. is the Pretender’s Son.

2d Coun.

Ay, ay, like enough.

O'Daub.

Memorandum—the officers’ tents are in the rear of the line.

2d Coun.

Mark that.

O'Daub.

N. B. the generals' tents are all houses.

1st Coun.

Remember that.

O'Daub.

Then the park of artillery;—I shall never make anything of that.—Oh! the devil burn the park of artillery!

Serj.

There's a villain! he’ll burn the park of artillery, will he?

O’Daub.

Well, faith this camp is easier taken than I thought it was.

Serj.

Is it so, you rogue? but you shall find the difference on’t.—Oh, what a providential discovery!

O’Daub.

To be sure the people will like it much, and in the course of the winter it may surprise his majesty.

Serj.

O, the villain! seize him directly— Fellow, you are a dead man if you stir! ----We seize you, sir, as a spy.

O’Daub.

A spy—phoo, phoo:—get about your business.

Serj.

Bind him, and blindfold him if he resists.

2d Coun.

Ay, blindfold him for certain, and search him too: I dare say his pockets are crowded with powder, matches, and tinder­boxes, at every corner.

O'Daub.

Tunder and owns!—what do you mean?

1st Cohn.

Hold him fast.

O’Daub.

Why here’s some ladies coming, who know me.—Here’s Lady Sarah Sash, and Lady Plume, who were at the fete-champetre, and will give me a good character.

Serj.

Why, villain, your papers have proved you a spy, and sent by the Old Pretender.

O’Daub.

O Lord! O Lord! I never saw the old gentleman in all my life.

Serj.

Why, you dog, didn’t you say the camp was easier taken than you thought it was?

2nd Coun.

Ay, deny that.

Serj.

And that you would burn the artillery, and surprise his majesty?—So, come, you had better confess before you are hanged.

O’Daub.

Hanged for a spy!—O, to be sure, myself is got into a pretty scrape!

Serj.

Bring him away; but blindfold him: the dog shall see no more.

O’Daub.

I’ll tell you what, Mr. Soldier, or Mr. Serjeant, or what the devil’s your name, upon my conscience and soul I’m nothing at all but an Irish painter, employed by Monsieur Lanternburg.

Serj.

There, he has confessed himself a fo­reigner, and employed by Marshal Leatherbag.

2d Coun.

O, he’ll be convicted by his tongue. You may swear he is a foreigner by his lingo.

1st Com.

Bring him away. I long to see him hanging.

O'Daub.

Tunder and wounds! if I am hanged, what will become of the theatre, and the ma­nagers; and the devil fly away with you all together, for a parcel of red blackguards!

[They hurry him of]

SCENE III.

Part of the Camp.

[Enter Lady Gorget, Lady Sash, and Lady Plume.

L. Plume.

O! my dear Lady Sash, indeed you are too severe; and I’m sure if Lady Gorget had been here she would have been of my opinion.

L. Sash.

Not in the least.

L. Plume.

You must know, she has been rallying my poor brother, Sir Harry Bouquet, for not being in the militia, and so ill-naturedly.

L. Sash.

So he should indeed; but all I said was, he looked so French and so finical, that I thought he ran a risque of being mistaken for another female chevalier.

L. Plume.

Yet, you must confess that our situation is open to a little raillery: a few elegancies of accommodation are considerably wanting, though one’s toilet, as Sir Harry says, is not absolutely spread on a drum head.

L. Sash.

He vows there is an eternal con­fusion between stores military and millinery; such a description he gives!—On one shelf, car­tridges and cosmetics, pouches and patches; here a stand of arms, there a file of black pins; in one drawer bullet-moulds and essence-bottles, pistols and tweezer-cases, with battle-powder mixed with marechelle.

L. Gorget.

O, the malicious creature!

L. Plume.

But pray, Lady Sash, don’t renew it; for see, here comes Sir Harry to join us.

[Enter Sir Harry Bouquet.

Sir Harry.

Now, Lady Sash, I beg a truce: Lady Gorget, I am rejoiced to see you at this delectable spot; where, Lady Plume, you may be amused with such a dismal variety.

L. Gorget.

You see, Lady Plume, he per­severes.

L. Sash.

I assure you, Sir Harry, I should have been against you in your raillery.

Sir Harry.

Now, as Gad’s my judge, I admire the place:—here’s all the pride, pomp, and ciro2

cumstance of glorious war!—Mars in a vis-a-vis, and Bellona giving a fete-champetre.

L. Plume.

But now, seriously, brother, what can make you judge so indifferently of the camp from any body else?

Sir Harry.

Why, seriously, then, I think it the worst planned thing I ever beheld; far instance now, the tents are all ranged in a straight line: now, Lady Gorget, can any thing be worse than a straight line?—and is not there a horrid uniformity in their infinite vista of can­vas?—no curve, no break, and the avenue of marquees abominable.

L. Sash.

O, to be sure, a circus or a crescent would have been vastly better.

L. Gorget.

What a pity Sir Harry was not consulted!

Sir Harry.

As Gad's my judge, I think so; for there is great capability in the ground.

L. Sash.

A camp cognoscenti, positively, Sir Harry: we will have you publish a treatise on military virtue.

Sir Harry.

Very well; but how will you ex­cuse this? the officers’ tents are close to the common soldiers:—what an arrangement is that now!—If I might have advised, there certainly should have been one part for the canaille, and the west end of the camp for the noblesse, and persons of a certain rank.

L. Gorget.

Very right. I dare say you would have thought of proper marquees for hazard and quinze.

L. Plume.

To be sure, with festino tents, and opera pavilions.

Sir Harry.

Gad, the only plan that could make it supportable for a week:—well, cer­tainly the greatest defect in a general is want of taste.

L. Sash.

Undoubtedly; and conduct, dis­cipline, and want of humanity, are no atone­ments for it.

Sir Harry.

None in nature.

L. Plume.

But, Sir Harry, it is rather un­lucky that the military spirit is so universal, for you will hardly find one to side with you.

Sir Harry.

Universal indeed; and the ridi­cule of it is to see bow this madness has in­fected the whole road from Maidstone to Lon­don: the camp jargon is as current all the way as bad silver: the very postilions that drive you talk of their cavalry, and refuse to charge on a trot up the hill; the turnpikes seem converted into redoubts, and the dogs demanded the countersign of my servants, instead of the tickets: then when I got to Maidstone, I found the very waiters had got a smattering of tactics; for inquiring what I could have for dinner, s cursed drill waiter, after reviewing his bill of fare with the air of a field-marshal, proposed an advanced party of soup and bouilli, to be followed by the main body of ham and chickens, flanked by a fricassee, with salads in the in­tervals, and a corps de reserve of sweetmeats, and whipt syllabubs to form a hollow square in the centre.

L. Plume.

Ha, ha, ha! Sir Harry, I am very sorry you have so strong a dislike to every thing military; for unless you would contribute to the fortune of our little recruit.

Sir Harry.

O, madam, most willingly; and very d-propos, here comes your ladyship’s pro­tegee, and has brought, I see, the little recruit, as you desired.

[Enter Nell and Nancy.]

Nell.

Here, Nancy, make your curtsy, or your bow, to the ladies, who have so kindly pro­mised you protection.

Nancy.

Simple gratitude is the only return I can make; but I am sure the ladies, who have hearts to do so good-natured a deed, will excuse my not being able to answer them as I ought

Nell.

She means, an please your ladyships, that she will always acknowledge your lady­ships’ goodness to the last hour of her life, and, as in duty bound, will ever pray for your lady­ships’ happiness and prosperity. That’s what you mean, you know.

[Aside to Nancy.]

L. Plume.

Very well: but, Nancy, are you satisfied that your soldier shall continue in his duty?

Nell.

O yes, your ladyship; she’s quite sa­tisfied.

L. Plume.

Well, child, we’re all your friends; and be assured your William shall be no sufferer by his constancy.

Nell.

There, Nancy; say something.

L. Sash.

But are you sure you will be able to bear the hardships of your situation?

[Retires up with Nancy.]

L. Plume. [To Nell.]

You have seen him, then?

Nell.

O, yes, your ladyship.

L. Plume.

Go, and bring him here.

[Exit Nell.]

Sir Harry, we have a little plot, which you must assist us in.

Nancy. [Coming forward with Lady Sash.]

O, madam, most willingly.

SONG.

The fife and dram sound merrily;

A soldier, a soldier’s the lad for me;

With my true love I soon shall be;

For who so kind, so true as he!

With him in every toil I'll share;

To please him shall be all my care:

Each peril I’ll dare, all hardship I'll bear;

For a soldier, a soldier's the lad for me.

Then if kind Heaven preserve my love,

What rapturous joys shall Nancy prove!

Swift through the camp shall my footstep bound,

To meet my William, with conquest crown'd:

Close to my faithful bosom prest,

Soon shall he hush his cares to rest;

Clasp'd in these arms, forget war's alarms;

For a soldier, a soldier’s the lad for me.

L. Plume.

Now, Nancy, you must be ruled by us.

Nancy.

As I live, there's my dear William!

L. Plume.

Turn from him ----you must.

Nancy.

O, I shall discover myself!—I tremble so unlike a soldier.

[Enter Nell and William.]

Nell.

Why, I tell you, William, the ladies want to ask you some questions.

Sir Harry.

Honest corporal, here’s a little recruit, son to a tenant of mine; and, as I am told you are an intelligent youngdellow, I mean to put him under your care.

Will.

What, that boy, your honour? Lord bless you, sir, I shall never be able to make anything of him.

Nancy, [Aside.]

I am sorry for that.

L. Sash.

Nay, corporal, he’s very young.

Will.

He is under size, my lady: such a stripling is fitter for a drummer than a rank and file.

Sir Harry.

But he's straight and well made.

Nancy.

I wish I was ordered to right about. Will. Well,—I’ll do all in my power to oblige your ladyship. Come, youngster, turn about Ah, Nelly, tell me, is’t not she?

Sir Harry.

Why don’t you march him off?

Nell.

Is he under size, corporal?—On, you blockhead!

Nancy.

O ladies, pray excuse me! ----My dear William!       

[Runs into his arms.]

Nell.

They’ll never be able to come to an explanation before your ladyships—Go, go, and talk by yourselves.

[They retire up the stage.]

[Enter Serjeant, Two Countrymen, Fife, etc.

Serj.

Please your ladyships, we have taken a sort of a spy this morning, who has the assurance to deny it, though he confesses himself an Irish painter. I have undertaken, however, to bring this letter from him to Lady Sarah Sash.

Sir Harry.

What appears against him?

Serj.

A great many suspicious circumstances, please your honour: he has an O before his name, and we took him with a draught of the camp in his hand.

L. Sash.

Ha, ha, ha! this is ridiculous enough: ’tis O’Daub, the Irish painter, who diverted us some time ago at the fete-champetre.—Honest serjeant, we’ll see your prisoner, and I fancy you may release him.

Sir Harry.

Pray, serjeant, what’s to be done this evening?

Serj.

The line, your honour, turns out; and as there are pleasure tents pitched, perhaps the ladies will condescend to hear a march and chorus, which some recruits are practising against his majesty comes to the camp.

L. Sash.

Come, Sir Harry, you’ll grow fond of a camp life yet.

Sir Harry.

Your ladyships will grow tired of it first, I’ll answer for it.

L. Sash.

No, no.

Sir Harry.

Yes, on the first bad weather you’ll give orders to strike your tents and toilets, and secure a retreat at Tunbridge.

[A march, while the scene changes to a View of the Camp.]

FINALE.

Serj.

While the loud voice of war resounds from afar,

Songs of duty and triumph we'll pay:

When our monarch appears, well give him three cheers,

With huzza! huzza! huzza!

Nancy.

Ye sons of the field, whose bright valour’s your shield,

Love and beauty your toils shall repay:

Inspired by the charms of war's fierce alarms,

Huzza! huzza! huzza!

Will.

Inspired by my love, all dangers I'll prove;

No perils shall William dismay:

In war's fierce alarms, inspired by those charms,

Huzza! huzza! huzza!

Chorus.

May true glory still wave her bright banners around;

Still with fame, pow'r, and freedom, old England be crown’d.