SONG.
The Achilles, though christen'd, good ship, 'tis surmis'd,
From that old man of war, great Achilles, so priz'd,
Was he, like our vessel, pray fairly baptiz'd?
Ti tol lol, &c.
Poets sung that Achilles—if, now, they've an itch
To sing this, future ages may know which is which;
And that one rode in Greece—and the other in pitch.
Ti tol lol, &c.
What tho' but a merchant ship—sure our supplies:
Now your men of war's gain in a lottery lies,
And how blank they all look, when they can't get a prize!
Ti tol lol, &c.
What are all their fine names? when no rhino's behind,
The Intrepid, and Lion, look sheepish you'll find;
Whilst, alas! the poor Æolus can't raise the wind!
Ti tol lol, &c.
Then the Thunderer's dumb; out of tune the Orpheus;
The Ceres has nothing at all to produce;
And the Eagle I warrant you, looks like a goose.
Ti tol lol, &c.
1st. Sail. Avast! look a-head there. Here they come, chased by a fleet of black devils.
Midsh. And the devil a fire have I to give them. We han't a grain of powder left. What must we do, lads?
2d. Sail. Do? Sheer off to be sure.
Midsh. [Reluctantly.] Well, if I must, I must. [Going to the other side, and holloing to Inkle, &c.] Yoho, lubbers! Crowd all the sail you can, d'ye mind me!
[Exeunt Sailors.
Enter Medium, running across the stage, as pursued by the Blacks.
Med. Nephew! Trudge! run—scamper! Scour—fly! Zounds, what harm did I ever do to be hunted to death by a pack of bloodhounds? Why nephew! Oh, confound your long sums in arithmetic! I'll take care of myself; and if we must have any arithmetic, dot and carry one for my money.
[Runs off.
Enter Inkle and Trudge, hastily.
Trudge. Oh! that ever I was born, to leave pen, ink, and powder for this!
Inkle. Trudge, how far are the sailors before us?
Trudge. I'll run and see, sir, directly.
Inkle. Blockhead, come here. The savages are close upon us; we shall scarce be able to recover our party. Get behind this tuft of trees with me; they'll pass us, and we may then recover our ship with safety.
Trudge. [Going behind.] Oh! Threadneedle-street, Thread—
Inkle. Peace.
Trudge. [Hiding.]—Needle-street. [They hide behind trees. Natives cross. After a long pause, Inkle looks from the trees.]
Inkle. Trudge.
Trudge. Sir. [In a whisper.]
Inkle. Are they all gone by?
Trudge. Won't you look and see?
Inkle. [Looking round.] So all is safe at last. [Coming forward.] Nothing like policy in these cases; but you'd have run on, like a booby! A tree, I fancy, you'll find, in future, the best resource in a hot pursuit.
Trudge. Oh, charming! It's a retreat for a king, sir: Mr. Medium, however, has not got up in it; your uncle, sir, has run on like a booby; and has got up with our party by this time, I take it; who are now most likely at the shore. But what are we to do next, sir?
Inkle. Reconnoitre a little, and then proceed.
Trudge. Then pray, sir, proceed to reconnoitre; for the sooner the better.
Inkle. Then look out, d'ye hear, and tell me if you discover any danger.
Trudge. Y——Ye—s—Yes.
Inkle. Well, is the coast clear?
Trudge. Eh! Oh lord!—Clear! [Rubbing his eyes.] Oh dear! oh dear! the coast will soon be clear enough now, I promise you——The ship is under sail, sir!
Inkle. Confusion! my property carried off in the vessel.
Trudge. All, all, sir, except me.
Inkle. They may report me dead, perhaps, and dispose of my property at the next island. [The vessel appears under sail.]
Trudge. Ah! there they go. [A gun fired.]——That will be the last report we shall ever hear from 'em I'm afraid.—That's as much as to say, Good bye to ye. And here we are left—two fine, full-grown babes in the wood!
Inkle. What an ill-timed accident! Just too, when my speedy union with Narcissa, at Barbadoes, would so much advance my interests.—Ah, my Narcissa, I never shall forget thy last adieu.—Something must be hit upon, and speedily; but what resource? [Thinking.]
Trudge. The old one—a tree, sir.—'Tis all we have for it now. What would I give, now, to be perched upon a high stool, with our brown desk squeezed into the pit of my stomach—scribbling away an old parchment!——But all my red ink will be spilt by an old black pin of a negro.