The remark elicited a drunken effort to be melodious—and Mr Pryme sang, or strove to sing, “We won’t go home till morning.”
“The divil a here ye’ll stay then,” responded his supporters.
“Wine—more wine.—‘Wine cures the gout,’” returned the quaker.
“If it does, sorra touch you’ll have of the disorder for a month of Sundays. Come along wid him.”
The quaker’s head was still ringing with drunken madrigals, and he proceeded to chaunt “Old King Cole.”
“Arrah, don’t bother us wid King Cole; but try and put the feet aninder ye. We’ll bring ye to George’s-street.”
“No,” no muttered the Quaker; “I’ll go home to the Merchants’ Quay.”
“Divil a sich an umproper place ye’ll go near. Haven’t ye been enough on the ran-tan already the night?” and away they toddled towards the barracks, which destination was safely reached, and the body of the pseudo lieutenant delivered to the guard, with an intimation on the part of the watchmen, that on the morrow particular inquiries should be made touching the general health of the invalid.
“This must be the officer that joined last week,” said the sergeant. “Go to his room and find his servant; and first put a knapsack under his head, and take his stock off. To do him justice, I never saw a more drunken gentleman.”
When John Crawford was awakened, and had made a personal inspection, to the utter surprise of the main guard, “pioneers and all,” he repudiated the sleeping gentleman, and satisfactorily illustrated the old adage, that the cowl no more constitutes a monk, than a red jacket makes the soldier. Honest John’s first care was to secure his master’s uniform from further damage, which he contrived to effect by the substitution of a shooting jacket; and then, nemine contradicente, it was agreed, that drunken men should be permitted to sleep themselves sober; and that accordingly, the unhappy puritan should be left in undisturbed repose.