Air—Mr. Snags.—(Guy Mannering.)
Oh! sleep, Mr. Clipclose, You were up all the night; You commenced at "The Finish," And closed with a fight. Oh! keep yourself quiet, and sleep while you may, Nor dream that the bailiffs are over the way.
(When the song ends, Poppleton advances to the front counter, and waves his yard. Dead silence. All turn to him.)
Pop.—Gemmen, you know of late that trade is dull, And the till empty, while the town is full: Bills have come round, and bankers won't renew; Our master's dish'd, and we are in a stew.
Mags.—Alas! my friends, what Poppy says is true; All's black without, and all within is blue: Our fates are certain,—Whitecross, or the Fleet; Writs are sued out, and bums are in the street.
1st Apprentice (a stout lad, with light hair, and enamelled shirt-studs—sobbing). —Short as short credit, shorter than short whist, Short as a barmaid's anger when she's kiss'd; Shorter than all, ah! Clipclose, was thy span—Oh, such a master! such a nice young man!
Snags (with considerable firmness and feeling). —Come, hang it! let's keep heart, tho' trade may fail; It's only lying six weeks in a jail! What with good company and sporting play, Kind friends, sound claret, and a lady gay, Speed the dull hours, and while the weeks away. Time's rapid flight men scarce have time to view, And, old scores clear'd, we open them anew.
(He pauses, and mounts an elevated desk; his voice and attitude expressive of desperate determination.)
Here, to the last, I'll take my wonted stand, Receive the flimsies from each fair one's hand. Courage my trumps! (to the apprentices;) unpaper all your hair;} Let our gay banner wanton in the air} To pull in flats, and make the natives stare!}
(All discard their papillotes, while the junior apprentice seizes a large placard, and suspends it over the door. On a dark ground, and in gold capitals, appears the device.