SONG.—ADELINE.
The mincing step, the woman's air,
The tender sigh, the soften'd note,
Poor Adeline must now forswear,
Nor think upon the petticoat.
Since love has led me to the field,
The soldier's phrase I'll learn by rote;
I'll talk of drums, of sword and shield,
And quite forget my petticoat.
When the loud cannon's roar I hear,
And trumpets bray with brazen throat,
With blust'ring, then, I'll hide my fear,
Lest I betray my petticoat.
But ah! how slight the terrors past,
If he on whom I fondly dote,
Is to my arms restored at last;—
Then—give me back my petticoat!
[Exit Adeline.
Gregory. Well, if I must go, I must. I cannot help following my poor Lady Adeline—affection has led many a bolder man by the nose than I. I wonder, though, how your bold fellows find themselves just before they're going to fight. I wonder if they have any uncomfortable sort of sticking in the throat, and a queer kind of a cold tickling feel in some part of the flesh. Ah! Gregory, Gregory Gubbins! your peaceable qualities will never do for a camp. I never could bear gunpowder, since I got fuddled at the fair, and the boys tied crackers, under Dobbin's tail, in the Market Place.