[Just as the song concludes, a servant enters and approaches the table.
Servant. Plase your honor, Gintlemin, the Major sinds his compliments to yiz, an’ hopes that yiz won’t make such an uproar; becaise the Major’s lady, my misthress, has a great headache. I know, to my own knowledge, that she took physic this mornin’, an’ complained of a gripin’. (A roar of laughter.) Oh, ’faith! I tell yiz no lies at all at all; for she’s as crass as two sticks to boot; which always shows she’s ill.
Ensign Buckskin. Ill-tempered you mean, Sir. Go along, and tell the Major that we shall endeavour to moderate our mirth; and, d’ ye hear?—very sorry for the Major’s lady. (Exit Servant.) What the d——l have ladies to do living in barracks, I say.
Ensign Luby. Right—hic—Barracks are only fit for single men—hic! Fire away, lads! who cares for the—hic—Major?
Ensign Newby. Or his wife either?
Ensign Buckskin. He’ll have us all to drill in the morning for this. So, my lads, let us drill him a little now. Song—song!
[A tremendous noise is heard, something like the rolling of bricks or large stones down stairs.
All the Mess. Eh! what’s that?
Ensign Buckskin. It’s the Major. He has fallen down stairs. (A similar noise is heard nearer the door.) Here he comes—now for a wigging. Don’t laugh for a dukedom.
Voice (without). I’ll see who dared to serve me so—that I will.