MRS UMPHREY.
Give me the pepper.
IRISHMAN.
Zoms—Miss—take care of your feathers—has the scoundrel spilt the gravy down your back?
ENSIGN.
Colonel, do you remember the locket—on her white arm?
COLONEL.
And her mild blue eyes.
FAT MINISTER.
Ay, ay—He's wanting to introduce his story again; and to tell us how she look'd when the soldiers crowded round the tent to listen to her song.