‘Glory and honour and gunshot galore;
Fighting the Moors in column and line,
Poor fellows, they never hurt me or mine—
Titiri titiri titiri tina ...’”
1st Sold. Look, look, comrades—what between singing and grumbling we never noticed yonder church among the trees.
Reb. Is that Zalamea?
Chis. Yes, that it is, I know the steeple. Hoorah! we’ll finish the song when we get into quarters, or have another as good; for you know I have ‘em of all sorts and sizes.
Reb. Halt a moment, here’s the sergeant.
2nd. Sold. And the captain, too.
Enter Captain and Sergeant.