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 in⯑tended 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; [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 ho⯑nor; 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 bu⯑ſineſs—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 endea⯑vour to find the boy, mind.

You ſhall ſettle on me one hundred a [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 ad⯑vice before I determine to marry Mary. Deter⯑mine! 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 [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 ſol⯑diers; ſo, yourſelf confeſs which of us you love.

Ay, do, Mary, your word ſhall de⯑cide it.

Which of you I love! Upon my ho⯑nor 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 pro⯑miſe 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 detach⯑ment 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 crea⯑tures.

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, Mon⯑mouth-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 [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, cacka⯑gay!"

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 up⯑per 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—re⯑flect, 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 [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 fel⯑low, 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 ſweet⯑heart, 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 con⯑trary to what might have made my friend Sin⯑clair 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 de⯑ſire 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, [25] when you might ſee it was a brave boy—Huzza!—the town's our own!

Damn your trifling! Give, this in⯑ſtant, 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 re⯑turning 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 du⯑tiful 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 affec⯑tionate parents ſend a darling ſon to face the perils of war, aſſert his country's honour!—What Eng⯑liſhman 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 [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 tempta⯑tion—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 merci⯑ful;—I'm ſure he'd conſider ſo excellent a ſol⯑dier as Lenox—Now, do let the poor fellow come to his ſenſes, and ſay nothing of it.

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

Unhappy creature!—and yet I'm aſhamed of Lenox.—However, I'll make my [30] father uſe all his intereſt for his pardon.—How have I been deceived in him! and how fortu⯑nate that my heart wasn't caught by his kind and obliging manners.—He loved me—he is Sin⯑clair'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 be⯑hind; 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 ſol⯑dier—I ſaid "my comrades," becauſe I'm ac⯑quainted with a number of the men; and I've conceived ſuch a friendſhip for ſome of the ho⯑neſt 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, com⯑merce, plenty and happineſs at home to Old England, where a good king is the common [32] parent—every man captain of his caſtle, and the laws to protect his property, wife and chil⯑dren. 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 un⯑diſciplin'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.—

—Some⯑thing in this young fellow that ſtrikes me ex⯑ceedingly—

—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 ſea⯑ſon 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 High⯑neſs 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 for⯑wardneſs 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 plea⯑ſure, [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 [...]a⯑ther.

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 be⯑witched 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 Green⯑wich.—(Shouts without.)

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

Something about Lenox.

I ſee it—he's been baſe and treache⯑rous; 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 pow⯑der 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 him⯑ſelf [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 ſweet⯑heart.

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 quit⯑ing your poſt was a crime, that demands from military diſcipline, a ſevere puniſhment; yet, in [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 mar⯑ried 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 un⯑worthy.

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 genero⯑ſity 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. Da⯑rumple, the fiddle-caſe maker; the private ſoldier, that for glory prefers a French bullet to an Eng⯑liſh 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 par⯑take 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.