LIEUTENANT O’CONNOR.
Then, upon my word, I’ll have the Rising Sun put down, and the Angel shall give security for his good behaviour; but are you sure you do nothing to quit scores with them?
CORPORAL FLINT.
Nothing at all, your honour, unless now and then we happen to fling a cartridge into the kitchen fire, or put a spatterdash or so into the soup; and sometimes Ned drums up and down stairs a little of a night.
LIEUTENANT O’CONNOR.
Oh, all that’s fair; but hark’ee, lads, I must have no grumbling on St. Patrick’s Day; so here, take this, and divide it amongst you. But observe me now,—show yourselves men of spirit, and don’t spend sixpence of it in drink.
SERJEANT TROUNCE.
Nay, hang it, your honour, soldiers should never bear malice; we must drink St. Patrick’s and your honour’s health.
ALL.
Oh, damn malice! St. Patrick’s and his honour’s by all means.
CORPORAL FLINT.
Come away, then, lads, and first we’ll parade round the Market-cross, for the honour of King George.
FIRST SOLDIER.
Thank your honour.—Come along; St. Patrick, his honour, and strong beer for ever! [Exeunt SOLDIERS.]
LIEUTENANT O’CONNOR.
Get along, you thoughtless vagabonds! yet, upon my conscience, ’tis very hard these poor fellows should scarcely have bread from the soil they would die to defend.
Enter DOCTOR ROSY.
Ah, my little Dr. Rosy, my Galen a-bridge, what’s the news?