Mr. H. Very fond of music, ma’am—do you sing or play?
Miss G. I do play—I plead guilty to that I own. But in this hole that we are in, there’s no room fitting for my piano. However, in the new inn which we have got now, I’ll fix my piano iligant in the back-parlour.
Mr. H. In the mean time, Miss Florinda, will you favour us with a song?
Christy. And I’ll be making the punch, for I’m no songstress. Biddy! Biddy Doyle! hot water in a jerry.
Miss G. Indeed I’m not used to sing without my piano; but, to oblige the major, I’ll sing by note.
Miss GALLAGHER sings.
Softly breathing through the heart,
When lovers meet no more to part;
That purity of soul be mine,
Which speaks in music’s sound divine.
‘Midst trees and streams of constant love,
That’s whispered by the turtle-dove;
Sweet cooing cushat all my pray’r,
Is love in elegance to share.
Mr. H. That’s what I call fine, now! Very fine that.
{GILBERT nods.
Miss G. (aside) Look at that Englishman, now, that hasn’t a word of compliment to throw to a dog, but only a nod. (Aloud) ‘Tis the military that has always the souls for music, and for the ladies—and I think, gentlemen, I may step for’ard, and say I’m entitled to call upon you now:—Mr. Gilbert, if you’ve ever a love-song in your composition.