SHOEMAKER. That's just what I said to myself this morning, therefore I was wise and brought my raincoat.
WAGONMAKER. The people should now assemble here and form a procession, but I don't see a cat! Shoemaker, didn't you tell the printer that we were to celebrate the Memorial Festival to-day?
SHOEMAKER. Why certainly, certainly!
WAGONMAKER. Will the gentlemen please form a semi-circle around the object's pedestal—so!
CHIROPODIST. We might begin with the cantata—then perhaps the people will come.
WAGONMAKER. I can't understand why the burgomaster isn't here? He always treated us to brandy other years.
SHOEMAKER. If you start the song he'll wake up, if he has overslept himself. Tune up, gentlemen—do, mi, sol, do!
WAGONMAKER. Then, I'll begin—but watch out for the trio so as to make it a regular ear-splitting ensemble!
[Solo Recitative.]
Hail to thee, Burgomaster!
Hail to thee, benefactor!
Life burns our deeds within its envious fire,
But mem'ry, like a phoenix from the pyre,
Rises on stalwart wing to waft them higher.
SHOEMAKER. Well whistled, Wagonmaker! Any signs of the grog yet?