“That’s exactly what I thought, sir. Then pray what’s the use of your talking all that gibberish, that none of us could understand?”
“I crave thy pardon, child; I spoke, I presume, in the dead languages.”
“If they’re dead, why not let them rest in their graves?”
“Good; thou hast wit.” (Cluck, cluck.) “Yet, child, know that it is pleasant to commune with the dead.”
“Is it? then we’ll put you on shore at Battersea churchyard.”
“Silence, Tom. He’s full of his sauce, sir—you must forgive it.”
“Nay, it pleaseth me to hear him talk; but it would please me more to hear thee sing.”
“Then here goes, sir, to drown Tom’s impudence:—
“Glide on my bark, the morning tide
Is gently floating by thy side;
Around thy prow the waters bright,
In circling rounds of broken light,
Are glittering, as if ocean gave
Her countless gems unto the wave.
“That’s a pretty air, and I first heard it sung by a pretty woman; but that’s all I know of the song. She sang another—