Inkle. What an ill-timed accident! Just too, when my speedy union with Narcissa, at Barbadoes, would so much advance my interests.—Ah, my Narcissa, I never shall forget thy last adieu.—Something must be hit upon, and speedily; but what resource? [Thinking.]
Trudge. The old one—a tree, sir.—'Tis all we have for it now. What would I give, now, to be perched upon a high stool, with our brown desk squeezed into the pit of my stomach—scribbling away an old parchment!——But all my red ink will be spilt by an old black pin of a negro.
SONG.
[Last Valentine's Day.]
A voyage over seas had not entered my head,
Had I known but on which side to butter my bread,
Heigho! sure I—for hunger must die!
I've sail'd like a booby; come here in a squall,
Where, alas! there's no bread to be butter'd at all!
Oho! I'm a terrible booby!