“‘A long pull, a strong pull, and a pull altogether,’” sang out old Tom: and then looking at Tom, “Now, ain’t you a pretty rascal, master Tom?”
“It is done,” exclaimed the Dominie, with a sigh, putting the fragment into the remaining pocket; “and it cannot be undone.”
“Now, I think it is undone, and can be done, master,” replied Tom. “A needle and thread will soon join the pieces of your old coat again—in holy matrimony, I may safely say—”
“True. (Cluck, cluck.) My housekeeper will restore it; yet will she be wroth, ‘Feminae curaeque iraeque;’ but let us think no more about it,” cried the Dominie, drinking deeply from his pannikin, and each minute verging fast to intoxication. “‘Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero pulsanda tellus.’ I feel as if I were lifted up, and could dance, yea, and could exalt my voice and sing.”
“Could you, my jolly old master? then we will both dance and sing—
“Come, let us dance and sing,
While all Barbadoes bells shall ring,
Mars scrapes the fiddle string
While Venus plays the lute.
Hymen gay, trips away,
Jocund at the wedding day.
“Now for chorus—
“Come, let us dance and sing.”