Miss G. To be sure, sir, and before I come to the honeymoon, I promise you; for I won’t become part or parcel of any man that ever wore a head, except he’s music in his soul enough to allow me my piano in the back parlour.
Christy. Asy! asy! Ferrinafad—don’t be talking about the piano-forte, till you are married. Don’t be showing the halter too soon to the shy horse—it’s with the sieve of oats you’ll catch him; and his head once in the sieve, you have the halter on him clane. Pray, after all, tell me, Florry, the truth—did Mr. Gilbert ever ax you?
Miss G. La, sir, what a coarse question. His eyes have said as much a million of times.
Christy. That’s good—but not in law, dear. For, see, you could not shue a man in the four courts for a breach of promise made only with the eyes, jewel. It must be with the tongue afore witness, mind, or under the hand, sale, or mark—look to that.
Miss G. But, dear sir, Mr. Gilbert is so tongue-tied with that English bashfulness.
Christy. Then Irish impudence must cut the string of that tongue, Florry. Lave that to me, unless you’d rather yourself.
Miss G. Lord, sir—what a rout about one man, when, if I please, I might have a dozen lovers.
Christy. Be the same more or less. But one rich bachelor’s worth a dozen poor, that is, for the article of a husband.
Miss G. And I dare say the drum-major is rich enough, sir—for all Scotchmen, they say, is fond of money and aconomie; and I’d rather after all be the lady of a military man. (Sings.)
“I’ll live no more at home,
But I’ll follow with the drum,
And I’ll be the captain’s lady, oh!”