Mace. Aye! a jig, a jig!—Remove the stand-stills—sit down, gemmen. Ve shall be as merry as mudlarks, and as gay as sand-boys soon—It’s a poor heart vhat never rejoices. Come, Muster Grimmuzzle, vhat say you to a minnyvit vith your ould lady in mourning, here.
Bob. Vith all my heart; I am never backward at any thing of that ’ere sort; am I Sal?
Sal. Dat you not, Massa Bob.—Massa Fiddler, you ought to be shame; your fiddle drunk, and no play at all.
Log. I’ll gin him a little, my Snow-ball; then he’ll rasp away like a young one; won’t you, my old one? (Gives Fiddler gin and snuff).
Bob. ‘Snowball,’—come, let’s have none o’your sinnywations, Mister Barnacles; she’s none the vurser, though she is a little blackish or so!
Log. Here, Landlord, more Blue Ruin, my boy!
Tom. Ceremonies are not in use here, so there’s no occasion for the master of them, Come, start off, my rum ones! the double shuffle.
Jerry. Aye, aye! come it strong my regulars.
