[] ROSE and COLIN, A COMIC OPERA.

SCENE I.

I can't think for the life of me what my father would be at, running about ſo:—I muſt get him out ſome how, for if Colin ſhould come, and he ſhould ſee him—

SCENE II.

What are you ſtanding here with your hands before you like a gentlewoman for?

Father, I—

I—well—why don't you go to work?

I left my work, father, to look for—

To look for what?

A—for your—a—for your hat, father.

My hat!—what the devil do you want with my hat?—well there then you have found [...]t, 'tis upon my head.

Becauſe ſeeing you run about ſo, I [...]hought you wanted it to go out.

To go out!—what ſhould I go out [...]or?

Why you talked of going out to buy [...]ome corn.

Yes, but my neighbour Higgins's ſon [...]s gone to buy for us both.

What, Colin!

Yes, Colin—what do you ſigh for?

Nothing,

See who's at [...]he door.

I can't get him out.

Sighing and whining—A young dog, [...]e has caught her, I can ſee that plain enough.

SCENE III.

'Tis farmer Higgins, father.

Farmer, I am glad to ſee thee—go and [...]raw ſome ale, daughter,

Well, neighbour Gregory, how doſt?

Why, neighbour, I ſhould be better if was better pleas'd.

Ay!—why, what has fallen out to vex [...]ee?

Thou ſhalt know—but firſt let me aſk thy advice—we are both widowers, you know your wife has left you a ſon, and mine has left me a daughter.

Roſe and Colin.

True—but if thy lot had been to have had the daughter inſtead of the ſon, and a young impudent dog had come when thou waſt in the field, or at market, or in the barn—

What, telling a ſoft tale in her ear, I warrant you—why I'd tell him, ſays I, calling him by his name—ſays I, my child is another gueſs ſort of a child, ſhe is not for thee, thou art a libertine, and if thou com'ſt here again, I ſhall be angry, I ſhall bruſh thy jacket.

Well ſaid, neighbour Higgins—now hear what I have got to ſay—laſt night I had been late cocking the hay, and when I come home, being a ſort of owl light, I could juſt ſee ſome thing crawl upon all fours towards the door, ſo taking it ſor a dog I gave it a good kick—upon this my daughter runs up to me with—dear father, I'm glad you're come home, I'm glad to ſee you, I'm glad no miſchief has hap⯑pened to her, I'm glad,

So, ſo.

And all this thou ſee'ſt that I might not find out what ſort of a four-legged animal it was—but I'cod I was too cunning for her—look⯑ing out of the window, I found Mr. Dog to be no other than Maſter Colin, your ſon.

Ah, ah!—This is the reaſon he is ſigh⯑ing and flouting about ſo then—I can't get him of late days to mind any kind of work.

Nor can I my daughter.

What ſhall we do?

Why, truly, I don't know.

Suppoſe we marry them together.

That's true—but ſuppoſe this ſhould be only a flighty pack of nonſenſe that will laſt but a month.

Try 'em, try 'em, let us try 'em.

How!

Here comes your daughter, ſeem as if we had quarrelled, and forbid me your houſe, then preſently come to me that we may counſel together.

SCENE V.

An old doating fool, to pretend that I don't know the price of grain,

Call that indeed clear wheat, when it has been half eat up by the rats.

Dear me, they ſeem to be quarrelling—here's the ale, father; will you pleaſe to drink, neighbour Higgins?

Not I—I won't taſte a drop of his ale.

Put it down, daughter—put it down—he ſhan't taſte a drop of it, was it ever ſo.

Dear father, what's the matter?

In one word, get out of my houſe.

I don't want to ſtay in it—and, dy'e mark me? never let you or your's come near mine—an old ſtupid—doating—not know the price of corn indeed!

SCENE V.

Go thy ways, thou old fool—and thou, daughter, if I ever know thee ſpeak to his ſon—I am going out, and if thou ſuffer'ſt that young dog to come lurking about my houſe—ſee'ſt thou this oak ſaplin—he ſhall get it—however for this time the key ſhall anſwer for thee—as I go out I'll double lock the door.

SCENE VI.

Yonder he goes—what can be the matter—they were ſuch good friends too—'tis a ſad thing not to be dutiful—but 'tis a ſadder thing not to love Colin.

SCENE VII.

Roſe! Roſe!

Oh dear! 'tis him, and the door is double-locked.

Roſe, open the door—I've watched the old man out—what the miſchief, is not ſhe at home?—let us ſee.

I can't open it, dear Colin—my father has locked it—come again in the evening; he does not hear me ſure—

dear me, he's gone—Oh! how my heart beats—that I could not ſpeak to him now—he was in a great hurry to go I think—Oh! the wicked rogue, there he is climbing up at the window—I'll hide myſelf, and vex him a little in his turn.

Roſe!—Roſe!—no, there's nobody at home; well, I'll leave her the poſey I brought, however;

The deuce take it, I have let it fall upon the ground, and ten to one if her father don't trample upon it—if I could but get in now I could put it upon the table—hang it, I can get in well enough—

Well done I—my hat's tumbled—never mind—I can pick it up when I go out.

Ah you rogue you—what you are there?

Yes, dear Colin—but don't come down, go away directly.

Nay, but dear Roſe.

I'll tell thee all at night—pray now go, you frighten me out of my wits; beſides, the window opens into Goody Fidget's garden, and ſhe's a ſcandalous old goſſip.

Never mind her.

My father is at the door—I hear him.

Odds wounds! I'll get away then—one kiſs.

No, no—make haſte.

How happened it that [19] the caſement is got ſo faſt now—here he comes, I muſt e'en ſtay where I am.

SCENE VIII.

Yes, yes, 'tis juſt as I feared; 'tis in every body's mouth—heyday! what's all this—the ſpinning-wheel in one place—the flax in an⯑other—nothing but tidling and tidling of that damned lace—'twould be better for you if you'd mind your ſpinning—Ah well, my comfort is, that rogue Colin's far enough off; his father has ſent him away for three years

what, you pout about it—'tis cruel, is it not?—ſhe ſhall have her Colin—Colin—the very name puts me in a paſſion; I'll trim him—I'll—but he's gone—he's gone, that's my com⯑fort

come take your wheel and go to your work—I have not had my afternoon's nap—I'll try if I can ſleep while you ſing.

Do, father—if you don't take your af⯑ternoon's nap I am afraid you'll be ſick

Come, ſing.

What ſhall I ſing, father?—that ſong about Colin?

Always Colin—nothing but Colin—ſing what you've a mind—if I ſleep about an hour wake me, do you hear?

Yes, father.

Icod, and ſo I have—what the deuce, Roſe, put it in your head to ſing that ſong?

What's that!—what the devil's that—Is the houſe tumbling down!—what's the matter!—

Dear father!—Colin!—

Who the devil have we got here?

Why, 'tis I.

Oh! 'tis you, you young raſcal, is it!—and where did you come from?—through the roof of the houſe, or down the chimney?

You have not hurt yourſelf, Colin, have you?

No, Roſe—you en't frighten'd, I hope, are you?

Frighten'd! how the devil ſhould ſhe be otherwiſe, coming into my houſe like a bomb or a cannon-ball—but you can ſet all to rights—don't be frightened, Roſe, 'tis I, your dear Colin—but tell me, once for all, what brought you here?

I come—I—I—come, neighbour.

I come—I—I—come—for what?

To bring you home—

What!

That.

That—what the devil's that?

Why, the ſaddle and bridle you lent father.

Lent father—why, you dog, I never lent your father a ſaddle and bridle.

I hope you are pretty well, neighbour Gregory, and your daughter Roſe.

Oh! yes, yes, we are mighty well, and now pray get about your buſineſs.

Lord! farmer Gregory, why are you haſty? it did not uſe to be ſo.

Here comes your father—he'll tell you why ſo.

SCENE laſt.

So, farmer, Goody Fidgit here has a fine ſtory to tell you.

Ay! why, to what do we owe the ſight of her?

Why, you owe the ſight of me to your own goings on—Lord! Lord! that pa⯑rents, now-a days, have no more prudence—you ought to be aſhamed of yourſelves, two men of your age—Thou, Nicholas Gregory, was born the 7th of January, in the year—

Well, well, we know how old we are—go on.

And you have no more grace than to let that forward minx, your daughter, chatter to that rogue Colin, every night, out of the window.

Dear, dear, how can that be, when I lie in the next room to my father?

So you do; and you get up again, and creep down a ladder by the way of the grainery.

Lord! lord!

Ah, 'tis no ſecret—all the village knows it.

I wiſh I could catch any body telling me of it, I'd have a touch at them.

Well, I tell thee of it then; now thou may'ſt have a touch at me if thou wilt.

'Tis a great lie, I tell you.

It is, is it—tell me then, what did you knock at that door for, but juſt now, when farmer Gregory was out?

What for—why, to come in, to be ſure.

But you found it locked; and, ſo rather than fail, you climbed up the wall, and jumped into my garden.

That's another lie, Goody.

We ſhall ſee—I can ſhew your father the fig-tree you broke in getting up.

What a wicked old woman you muſt be!

I tell you 'tis a pack of ſpight and malice—you broke the fig-tree yourſelf, I ſup⯑poſe, and now you have a mind to ſay I did it.

And pray was it I too dropped this hat,

which I found under the window?

Oh! ho! I am no longer at a loſs to know how he came into the houſe.

Roſe!

Colin!—what ſhall we do?

Get out of the houſe directly, you dog, and wait for me at the door.

And do you ſo, to your chamber, this minute.

Neighbour Higgins.

Neighbour Gregory.

Shall we try them any longer?

They'll only make fools of us if we do.

Why, I believe you are in the right—come here, both of you,

'tis more than you deſerve, but we forgive you; and you, young dog, if you don't make her a good huſband—

Ah! neighbour, there's no fear of that.

Well, we have made good the old proverb at leaſt.