Tom then struck up, the Dominie see-sawing as he sat, and getting very sleepy—
“Luck in life, or good or bad,
Ne’er could make me melancholy;
Seldom rich, yet never sad,
Sometimes poor, yet always jolly.
Fortune’s in my scale, that’s poz,
Of mischance put more than half in;
Yet I don’t know how it was,
I could never cry for laughing—
Ha! ha! ha! Ha! ha! ha!
I could never cry for laughing.
“Now for chorus, father—
“Ha! ha! ha! Ha! ha! ha!
I could never cry for laughing.
“That’s all I know; and that’s enough, for it won’t wake up the old gentleman.”
But it did. “Ha, ha, ha—ha, ha, ha! I could never die for laughing,” bawled out the Dominie, feeling for his pannikin; but this was his last effort. He stared round him. “Verily, verily, we are in a whirlpool—how everything turneth round and round! Who cares? Am I not an ancient mariner—‘Qui videt mare turgidum—et infames scopulos.’ Friend Dux, listen to me—favet linguis.”
“Well,” hiccuped old Tom, “so I will—but speak—plain English—as I do.”
“That I’ll be hanged if he does,” said Tom to me. “In half an hour more I shall understand old Nosey’s Latin just as well as his—plain English, as he calls it.”
“I will discuss in any language—that is—in any tongue—be it in the Greek or the Latin—nay, even—(hiccups)—friend Dux—hast thou not partaken too freely—of—dear me! Quo me, Bacche, rapis tui—plenum—truly I shall be tipsy—and will but finish my pattypan—dulce periculum est—Jacob—can there be two Jacobs?—and two old Toms?—nay—mirabile dictu—there are two young Toms, and two dog Tommies—each with—two tails. Bacche, parce—precor—precor—Jacob, where art thou?—Ego sum tu es—thou art—sumus, we are—where am I? Procumbit humi bos—for Bos—read Dobbs—amo, amas—I loved a lass. Tityre, tu patulae sub teg-mine—nay—I quote wrong—then must I be—I do believe that—I’m drunk.”
“And I’m cock sure of it,” cried Tom, laughing, as the Dominie fell back in a state of insensibility.