Tallyho sings without.
At six in the morning, by most of the clocks,
We rode to Kilruddery, in search of a fox. Tol de rol lol.
Lack. Here comes Tallyho—Yes, Casey's burgundy has quite done him up.
Lady B. Fontainbleau! one might as well be at Ascot Heath.
Enter Tallyho, drunk, and singing.
Tall. Or, I'll leap over you, your blind gelding and all, tol de rol—Ha! ha! ha! Sir John, I am so sorry you should be hurt by that fall!
Sir J. B. Ha! ha! ha! Yes, I see you are very sorry.
Tall. But how is your leg?
Sir J. B. My leg! it's my forehead.
Tall. Ah! ha! my old prize fighter!