ACT IV.

Where all the parts in complication roll,And with its charming music feast the soul!

Dick.Delightful, indeed; I'll attempt it with what little skill I have in music; we may then defy these wolves to imitate it, and thereby save our flocks: I am well convinced, Roger, these wolves intended it rather as a decoy than by way of ridicule, because they live by cunning and deception; besides, they could never mean to ridicule a piece of music, a tune, of which such brutes cannot be supposed to be judges, and, which is allowed by the best masters of music to be a composition of the most sublime kind, and would have done honour to a Handel or a Correllius. Well, go on, Roger, I long to hear the whole.

Roger.When they came to Lexington, where a flock of our innocent sheep and young lambs, as usual, were feeding and sporting on the plain, these dogs of violence and rapine with haughty stride advanc'd, and berated them in a new and unheard of language to us.

Dick.I suppose learn'd at their own fam'd universities—

Roger.No doubt; they had teachers among them—two old wolves their leaders, not unlike in features to Smith and Pitcairn, as striving to outvie each other in the very dregs of brutal eloquence, and more than Billingsgate jargon, howl'd in their ears such a peal of new-fangled execrations, and hell-invented oratory, till that day unheard in New-England, as struck the whole flock with horror, and made them for a while stand aghast, as tho' all the wolves in the forest had broke loose upon them.

Dick.Oh, shocking!—Roger, go on.

Roger.Not content with this, their murdering leaders, with premeditated malice, keen appetite, and without provocation, gave the howl for the onset, when instantly the whole herd, as if the devil had entered into them, ran violently down the hill, and fixed their talons and jaws upon them, and as quick as lightning eight innocent young lambs fell a sacrifice to their fury, and victims to their rapacity; the very houses of our God were no longer a sanctuary; many they tore to pieces, and some at the very foot of the altar; others were dragged out as in a wanton, gamesome mood.

Dick.Barbarity inexpressible! more than savage cruelty! I hope you'll make their master pay for 'em; there is a law of this province, Roger, which obliges the owner of such dogs to pay for the mischief they do.

Roger.I know it, Dick; he shall pay, never fear, and that handsomely too; he has paid part of it already.

Dick.Who is their master, Roger?

Roger.One Lord Paramount; they call him a free-booter; a fellow who pretends to be proprietor of all America, and says he has a deed for it, and chief ranger of all the flocks, and pretends to have a patent for it; has been a long time in the practice of killing and stealing sheep in England and Ireland, and had like to have been hang'd for it there, but was reprieved by the means of his friendGeorge—I forgot his other name—not Grenville—not George the Second—but another George—

Dick.It's no matter, he'll be hang'd yet; he has sent his dogs to a wrong place, and lugg'd the wrong sow by the ear; he should have sent them to Newfoundland, or Kamchatka, there's no sheep there—But never mind, go on, Roger.

Roger.Nor was their voracious appetites satiated there; they rush'd into the town of Concord, and proceeded to devour every thing that lay in their way; and those brute devils, like Sampson's foxes (and as tho' they were men), thrice attempted with firebrands to destroy our corn, our town-house and habitations.

Dick.Heavens! Could not all this provoke you?

Roger.It did; rage prompted us at length, and found us arms 'gainst such hellish mischief to oppose.

Dick.Oh, would I had been there!

Roger.Our numbers increasing, and arm'd with revenge, we in our turn play'd the man; they, unus'd to wounds, with hideous yelling soon betook themselves to a precipitate and confused flight, nor did we give o'er the chase, till Phœbus grew drowsy, bade us desist, and wished us a good night.

Dick.Of some part of their hasty retreat I was a joyful spectator, I saw their tongues lolling out of their mouths, and heard them pant like hunted wolves indeed.

Roger.Did you not hear how their mirth was turn'd into mourning? their fury into astonishment? how soon they quitted their howling Yankee Doodle, and chang'd their notes to bellowing? how nimbly (yet against their will) they betook themselves to dancing? And he was then the bravest dog that beat time the swiftest, and footed Yankee Doodle the nimblest.

Dick.Well pleased, Roger, was I with the chase, and glorious sport it was: I oft perceiv'd them tumbling o'er each other heelsover head; nor did one dare stay to help his brother—but, with bloody breech, made the best of his way—nor ever stopped till they were got safe within their lurking-holes—

Roger.From whence they have not the courage to peep out, unless four to one, except (like a skunk) forc'd by famine.

Dick.May this be the fate of all those prowling sheep-stealers, it behooves the shepherds to double the watch, to take uncommon precaution and care of their tender flocks, more especially as this is like to be an uncommon severe winter, by the appearance of wolves, so early in the season—but, hark!—Roger, methinks I hear the sound of melody warbling thro' the grove—Let's sit a while, and partake of it unseen.

Roger.With all my heart.—Most delightful harmony! This is the First of May; our shepherds and nymphs are celebrating our glorious St. Tammany's day; we'll hear the song out, and then join in the frolic, and chorus it o'er and o'er again—This day shall be devoted to joy and festivity.

Song.

[Tune.The hounds are all out, &c.]

OfSt. George, orSt. Bute, let the poet Laureat sing,OfPharaohorPlutoof old,While he rhymes forth their praise, in false, flattering lays,I'll sing of St. Tamm'ny the bold, my brave boys.

Let Hibernia's sons boast, make Patrick their toast;And Scots Andrew's fame spread abroad.Potatoes and oats, and Welch leeks for Welch goats,Was never St. Tammany's food, my brave boys.

In freedom's bright cause, Tamm'ny pled with applause,And reason'd most justly from nature;For this, this was his song, all, all the day long:Liberty's the right of each creature, brave boys.

Whilst under an oak his great parliament sat,His throne was the crotch of the tree;With Solomon's look, without statutes or book,He wisely sent forth his decree, my brave boys.

His subjects stood round, not the least noise or sound,Whilst freedom blaz'd full in each face:So plain were the laws, and each pleaded his cause;That mightBute,NorthandMansfielddisgrace, my brave boys.

No duties, nor stamps, their blest liberty cramps,A king, tho' notyrant, was he;He did oft'times declare, nay, sometimes wou'd swear,The least of his subjects were free, my brave boys.

He, as king of the woods, of the rivers and floods,Had a right all beasts to controul;Yet, content with a few, to give nature her due:So gen'rous was Tammany's soul! my brave boys.

In the morn he arose, and a-hunting he goes,Bold Nimrod his second was he.For his breakfast he'd take a large venison steak,And despis'd your slip-slops and tea, my brave boys.

While all in a row, with squaw, dog and bow,Vermilion adorning his face,With feathery head he rang'd the woods wide:St. Georgesure had never such grace, my brave boys?

10.

His jetty black hair, such as Buckskin saints wear,Perfumed with bear's grease well smear'd,Which illum'd the saint's face, and ran down apace,Like the oil from Aaron's old beard, my brave boys.

11.

The strong nervous deer, with amazing career,In swiftness he'd fairly run down;And, like Sampson, wou'd tear wolf, lion or bear.Ne'er was such a saint as our own, my brave boys.

12.

When he'd run down a stag, he behind him wou'd lag;For, so noble a soul had he!He'd stop, tho' he lost it, tradition reports it,To give him fresh chance to get free, my brave boys.

13.

With a mighty strong arm, and a masculine bow,His arrow he drew to the head,And as sure as he shot, it was ever his lot,His prey it fell instantly dead, my brave boys.

14.

His table he spread where the venison bled,Be thankful, he used to say;He'd laugh and he'd sing, tho' a saint and a king,And sumptuously dine on his prey, my brave boys.

15.

Then over the hills, o'er the mountains and rillsHe'd caper, such was his delight;And ne'er in his days, Indian history says,Did lack a good supper at night, my brave boys.

16.

On an old stump he sat, without cap or hat.When supper was ready to eat,Snap, his dog, he stood by, and cast a sheep's eyeFor ven'son, the king of all meat, my brave boys.

17.

Like Isaac of old, and both cast in one mould,Tho' a wigwam was Tamm'ny's cottage,He lov'd sav'ry meat, such that patriarchs eat,Of ven'son and squirrel made pottage, brave boys.

18.

When fourscore years old, as I've oft'times been told,To doubt it, sure, would not be right,With a pipe in his jaw, he'd buss his old squaw,And get a young saint ev'ry night, my brave boys.

19.

As old age came on, he grew blind, deaf and dumb,Tho' his sport, 'twere hard to keep from it,Quite tired of life, bid adieu to his wife,And blazed like the tail of a comet, brave boys.

20.

What country on earth, then, did ever give birthTo such a magnanimous saint?His acts far excel all that history tell,And language too feeble to paint, my brave boys.

21.

Now, to finish my song, a full flowing bowlI'll quaff, and sing all the long day,And with punch and wine paint my cheeks for my saint,And hail ev'ry First of sweetMay, my brave boys.

Dick.What a seraphic voice! how it enlivens my soul! Come away, away, Roger, the moments are precious.

[ExeuntDickandRoger.

SceneVII.In a chamber, near Boston, the morning after the battle of Bunkers-Hill.

Clarissa.How lovely is this new-born day!—The sun rises with uncommon radiance after the most gloomy night my wearied eyes ever knew.—The voice of slumber was not heard—the angel of sleep was fled—and the awful whispers of solemnity and silence prevented my eye-lids from closing.—No wonder—the terrors and ideas of yesterday—such a scene of war—of tumult—hurry and hubbub—of horror and destruction—the direful noise of conflict—the dismal hissing of iron shot in volleys flying—such bellowing of mortars—such thund'ring of cannon—such roaring of musketry—and such clashing of swords and bayonets—such cries of the wounded—and such streams of blood—such a noise and crush of houses, steeples, and whole streets of desolate Charlestown falling—pillars of fire, and the convulsed vortex of fiery flakes, rolling in flaming wreaths in the air, in dreadful combustion, seemed as tho' the elements and whole earth were envelop'd in one general, eternal conflagration and total ruin, and intermingled with black smoke, ascending, on the wings of mourning, up to Heaven, seemed piteously to implore the Almighty interposition to put a stop to such devastation, lest the whole earth should be unpeopled in the unnatural conflict—Too, too much for female heroism to dwell upon—But what are all those to the terrors that filled my affrighted imagination the last night?—Dreams—fancies—evil bodings—shadows, phantoms and ghastly visions continually hovering around my pillow, goading and harrowing my soul with the most terrific appearances, not imaginary, but real—Am I awake?—Where are the British murderers?—where's my husband?—my son?—my brother?—Something more than human tells me all is not well: If they are among the slain, 'tis impossible.—I—Oh! [She cries.]

Enter aNeighbour[a spectator of the battle].

Neighbour.Madam, grieve not so much.

Clarissa.Am I wont to grieve without a cause? Wou'd to God I did;—mock me not—What voice is that? methinks I know it—some angel sent to comfort me?—welcome then. [She turns about.] Oh, my Neighbour, is it you? My friend, I have need of comfort. Hast thou any for me?—say—will you not speak? Where's my husband?—my son?—my brother? Hast thou seen them since the battle? Oh! bring me not unwelcome tidings! [Cries.]

Neighbour.[Aside. What shall I say?] Madam, I beheld them yesterday from an eminence.

Clarissa.Upon that very eminence was I. What then?—

Neighbour.I saw the brave man Warren, your son and brother.

Clarissa.What? O ye gods!—Speak on friend—stop—what saw ye?

Neighbour.In the midst of the tempest of war—

Clarissa.Where are they now?—That I saw too—What is all this?

Neighbour.Madam, hear me—

Clarissa.Then say on—yet—Oh, his looks!—I fear!

Neighbour.When General Putnam bid the vanguard open their front to the—

Clarissa.Oh, trifle not with me—dear Neighbour!—where shall I find them?—say—

Neighbour.[Aside. Heavens! must I tell her!] Madam, be patient—right and left, that all may see who hate us, we are prepar'd for them—

Clarissa.What then?—Can you find 'em?—

Neighbour.I saw Warren and the other two heroes firm as Roxbury stand the shock of the enemy's fiercest attacks, and twice put to flight their boasted phalanx.—

Clarissa.All that I saw, and more; say—wou'd they not come to me, were they well?—

Neighbour.Madam, hear me—

Clarissa.Oh! he will not speak.

Neighbour.The enemy return'd to the charge, and stumbling o'er the dead and wounded bodies of their friends, Warren received them with indissoluble firmness, and notwithstanding their battalious aspect, in the midst of the battle, tho' surrounded with foes on ev'ry side—

Clarissa.Oh, my Neighbour!—

Neighbour.Madam—his nervous arm, like a giant refresh'd with wine, hurl'd destruction where'er he came, breathing heroic ardour to advent'rous deeds, and long time in even scale the battle hung, till at last death turn'd pale and affrighted at the carnage—they ran—

Clarissa.Who ran?

Neighbour.The enemy, Madam, gave way—

Clarissa.Warren never ran—yet—oh! I wou'd he had—I fear—[Cries.]

Neighbour.I say not so, Madam.

Clarissa.What say ye then? he was no coward, Neighbour—

Neighbour.Brave to the last. [Aside. I forgot myself.]

Clarissa.What said you? O Heavens! brave to the last! those words—why do you keep me thus?—cruel—

Neighbour.[Aside. She will know it.] I say, Madam, by some mistaken orders on our side, the enemy rallied and return'd to the charge with fresh numbers, and your husband, son, and brother—Madam—

Clarissa.Stop!—O ye powers!—What?—say no more—yet let me hear—keep me not thus—tell me, I charge thee—

Neighbour.[Aside. I can hold no longer, she must know it.] Forgive me, Madam—I saw them fall—and Michael, the archangel, who vanquish'd Satan, is not more immortal than they. [Aside. Who can relate such woes without a tear?],

Clarissa.Oh! I've heard enough—too—too much [Cries.] yet—if thou hast worse to tell—say on—nought worse can be—O ye gods!—cruel—cruel—thrice cruel—cou'd ye not leaveme one—[She faints, and is caught by her friend, and placed in a chair; he rings the bell, the family come in, and endeavour to bring her to.]

Neighbour.With surprising fortitude she heard the melancholy relation, until I came to the last close—she then gave me a mournful look, lifted up her eyes, and immediately sunk motionless into my arms.

Woman.Poor soul!—no wonder—how I sympathize with her in her distress—my tender bosom can scarcely bear the sight! A dreadful loss! a most shocking scene it was, that brothers should with brothers war, and in intestine fierce opposition meet, to seek the blood of each other, like dogs for a bare bone, who so oft in generous friendship and commerce join'd, in festivals of love and joy unanimous as the sons of one kind and indulgent father, and separately would freely in a good cause spend their blood and sacrifice their lives for him.

Neighbour.A terrible black day it was, and ever will be remembered by New-England, when that vile Briton (unworthy the name of a Briton), Lord Boston (curse the name!), whose horrid murders stain American soil with blood; perish his name! a fratricide! 'twas he who fir'd Charlestown, and spread desolation, fire, flames and smoke in ev'ry corner—he was the wretch, that waster of the world, that licens'd robber, that blood-stain'd insulter of a free people, who bears the name of Lord Boston, but from henceforth shall be called Cain, that pillag'd the ruins, and dragg'd and murder'd the infant, the aged and infirm—(But look, she recovers.)

Clarissa.O ye angels! ye cherubims and seraphims! waft their souls to bliss, bathe their wounds with angelic balsam, and crown them with immortality. A faithful, loving and beloved husband, a promising and filial son, a tender and affectionate brother: Alas! what a loss!—Whom have I now to comfort me?—What have I left, but the voice of lamentation: [She weeps.] Ill-fated bullets—these tears shall sustain me—yes, ye dear friends! how gladly wou'd I follow you—but alas! I must still endure tribulation and inquietudes, from which you are now exempt; I cannot cease to weep, ye brave men, I will mourn your fall—weep on—flow, mine eyes, and wash away their blood, till the fountain of sorrow is dried up—but, oh! it never—never will—my sympathetic soul shall dwell on your bosoms, and floods of tears shall water your graves; and since all othercomfort is deny'd me, deprive me not of the only consolation left me of meditating on your virtues and dear memories, who fell in defense of liberty and your country—ye brave men—ye more than friends—ye martyrs to liberty!—This, this is all I ask, till sorrow overwhelms me.—I breathe my last; and ye yourselves, your own bright spirits, come and waft me to your peaceful abode, where the voice of lamentation is not heard, neither shall we know any more what it is to separate.

Eager the patriot meets his desperate foeWith full intent to give the fatal blow;The cause he fights for animates him high,His wife, his children and his liberty:For these he conquers, or more bravely dies,And yields himself a willing sacrifice.

[Exeunt.

SceneI.Near Norfolk, in Virginia, on board a man-of-war,Lord Kidnapper, in the state-room; a boat appears rowing towards the ship.

SailorandBoatswain.

Sailor.Boatswain!

Boatswain.Holla.

Sailor.Damn my eyes, Mr. Boatswain, but here's a black flag of truce coming on board.

Boatswain.Sure enough—where are they from?

Sailor.From hell, I suppose—for they're as black as so many devils.

Boatswain.Very well—no matter—they're recruits for the Kidnapper.

Sailor.We shall be all of a colour by and by—damn me—

Boatswain.I'll go and inform his Lordship and his pair of doxies of it; I suppose by this time they have trim'd their sails, and he's done heaving the log.

[ExitBoatswain.

SceneII.Near the state-room.

Boatswain.Where's his Lordship?

Servant.He's in the state-room.

Boatswain.It's time for him to turn out; tell him I want to speak to him.

Servant.I dare not do it, Boatswain; it's more than my life is worth.

Boatswain.Damn your squeamish stomach, go directly, or I'll go myself.

Servant.For God's sake! Boatswain—

Boatswain.Damn your eyes, you pimping son of a bitch, go this instant, or I'll stick my knife in your gammons.

Servant.O Lord! Boatswain. [Servantgoes.]

Boatswain[solus]. What the devil—keep a pimp guard here, better station the son of a bitch at the mast head, to keep a look out there, lest Admiral Hopkins be upon us.

EnterKidnapper.

Kidnapper.What's your will, Boatswain?

Boatswain.I beg your Lordship's pardon [Aside. But you can soon fetch up Leeway, and spread the water sail again.], please your honour, here's a boat full of fine recruits along side for you.

Kidnapper.Recruits, Boatswain? you mean soldiers from Augustine, I imagine; what reg'mentals have they on?

Boatswain.Mourning, please your honour, and as black as our tarpawling.

Kidnapper.Ha, ha, well well, take 'em on board, Boatswain, I'll be on deck presently.

Boatswain.With submission to your honour, d' ye see, [Scratching his head.] I think we have gallows-looking dogs enough on board already—the scrapings of Newgate, and the refuse of Tyburn, and when the wind blows aft, damn 'em, they stink like polecats—but d' ye see, as your honour pleases, with submission, if it's Lord Paramount's orders, why it must be so, I suppose—but I've done my duty, d' ye see—

Kidnapper.Ha, ha, the work must be done, Boatswain, no matter by whom.

Boatswain.Why, aye, that's true, please your honour, any port in a storm—if a man is to be hang'd, or have his throat cut, d' ye see—who are so fit to do it as his own slaves? especially as they're to have their freedoms for it; nobody can blame 'em, nor your honour neither, for you get them for half price, or nothing at all, d' ye see me, and that will help to lessen poor Owld England's taxes, and when you have done with 'em here, and they get their brains knock'd out, d' ye see, your honour can sell them in the West-Indies, and that will be something in your honour's pocket, d' ye see—well, ev'ry man to his trade—but, damn my impudence for all, I see your honour knows all about it—d' ye see.

[ExitBoatswain.

SceneIII.Lord Kidnapperreturns to his state-room; theBoatswaincomes on deck and pipes.

All hands ahoy—hand a rope, some of you Tories, forward there, for his worship's reg'ment of black guards to come aboard.

EnterNegroes.

Boatswain.Your humble servant, Gentlemen, I suppose you want to see Lord Kidnapper?—Clear the gangway there of them Tyburn tulips. Please to walk aft, brother soldiers, that's the fittest birth for you, the Kidnapper's in the state-room, he'll hoist his sheet-anchor presently, he'll be up in a jiffin—as soon as he has made fast the end of his small rope athwart Jenny Bluegarter and Kate Common's stern posts.

First Sailor.Damn my eyes, but I suppose, messmate, we must bundle out of our hammocks this cold weather, to make room for these black regulars to stow in, tumble upon deck, and choose a soft berth among the snow?

Second Sailor.Blast 'em, if they come within a cable's length of my hammock, I'll kick 'em to hell through one of the gun ports.

Boatswain.Come, come, brothers, don't be angry, I suppose we shall soon be in a warmer latitude—the Kidnapper seems as fond of these black regulars (as you call 'em, Jack) as he is of the brace of whores below; but as they come in so damn'd slow, I'll put him in the humour of sending part of the fleet this winter to the coast of Guinea, and beat up for volunteers, there he'll get recruits enough for a hogshead or two of New-England rum, and a few owld pipe-shanks, and save poor Owld-England the trouble and expense of clothing them in the bargain.

First Sailor.Aye,Boatswain, any voyage, so it's a warm one—if it's to hell itself—for I'm sure the devil must be better off than we, if we are to stay here this winter.

Second Sailor.Any voyage, so it's to the southward, rather than stay here at lazy anchor—no fire, nothing to eat or drink, but suck our frosty fists like bears, unless we turn sheep-stealers again, and get our brains knock'd out. Eigh, master cook, you're a gentleman now—nothing to do—grown so proud, you won't speak to poor folks, I suppose?

Cook.The devil may cook for 'em for me—if I had any thing to cook—a parcel of frozen half-starv'd dogs. I should never be able to keep 'em out of the cook room, or their noses out of the slush-tub.

Boatswain.Damn your old smoky jaws, you're better off than any man aboard, your trouble will be nothing,—for I suppose they'll be disbursted in different messes among the Tories, and it's only putting on the big pot, cockey. Ha, ha, ha.

Cook.What signifies, Mr. Boatswain, the big pot or the little pot, if there's nothing to cook? no fire, coal or wood to cook with? Blast my eyes, Mr. Boatswain, if I disgrease myself so much, I have had the honour, damn me (tho' I say it that shou'dn't say it) to be chief cook of a seventy-four gun ship, on board of which was Lord Abel-Marl and Admiral Poke-Cock.

Boatswain.Damn the liars—old singe-the-devil—you chief cook of a seventy-four gun ship, eigh? you the devil, you're as proud as hell, for all you look as old as Matheg'lum, hand a pair of silk stockings for our cook here, d' ye see—lash a handspike athwart his arse, get a ladle full of slush and a handful of brimstone for his hair, and step one of you Tories there for the devil's barber to come and shave and dress him. Ha, ha, ha.

Cook.No, Mr. Boatswain, it's not pride—but look 'e (as I said before), I'll not disgrease my station, I'll throw up my commission, before I'll stand cook for a parcel of scape gallows, convict Tory dogs and run-away Negroes.

Boatswain.What's that you say? Take care, old frosty face—What? do you accuse his worship of turning kidnapper, and harbouring run-away Negroes?—Softly, or you'll be taken up for a Whig, and get a handsome coat of slush and hog's feathers for a christmas-box, cockey: Throw up your commission, eigh? throw up the pot-halliards, you mean, old piss-to-windward? Ha, ha, ha.

Cook.I tell you, Mr. Boatswain—I—

Boatswain.Come, come, give us a chaw of tobacco, Cook— blast your eyes, don't take any pride in what I say—I'm only joking, d' ye see——

Cook.Well, but Mr. Boatswain——

Boatswain.Come, avast, belay the lanyards of your jaws, and let's have no more of it, d' ye see. [Boatswainpipes.] Make fast that boat along side there.

[Exeunt ev'ry man to his station.

SceneIV.Lord Kidnappercomes up on the quarter-deck.

Kidnapper.Well, my brave blacks, are you come to list?

Cudjo.Eas, massa Lord, you preazee.

Kidnapper.How many are there of you?

Cudjo.Twenty-two, massa.

Kidnapper.Very well, did you all run away from your masters?

Cudjo.Eas, massa Lord, eb'ry one, me too.

Kidnapper.That's clever; they have no right to make you slaves, I wish all the Negroes wou'd do the same, I'll make 'em free—what part did you come from?

Cudjo.Disse brack man, disse one, disse one, disse one, disse one, come from Hamton, disse one, disse one, disse one, come from Nawfok, me come from Nawfok too.

Kidnapper.Very well, what was your master's name?

Cudjo.Me massa name Cunney Tomsee.

Kidnapper.Colonel Thompson—eigh?

Cudjo.Eas, massa, Cunney Tomsee.

Kidnapper.Well then I'll make you a major—and what's your name?

Cudjo.Me massa cawra me Cudjo.

Kidnapper.Cudjo?—very good—was you ever christened, Cudjo?

Cudjo.No massa, me no crissen.

Kidnapper.Well, then I'll christen you—you shall be called Major Cudjo Thompson, and if you behave well, I'll soon make you a greater man than your master, and if I find the rest of you behave well, I'll make you all officers, and after you have serv'd Lord Paramount a while, you shall have money in your pockets, good clothes on your backs, and be as free as them white men there. [Pointing forward to a parcel of Tories.]

Cudjo.Tankee, massa, gaw bresse, massa Kidnap.

Sailor.[Aside.] What a damn'd big mouth that Cudjo has—as large as our main hatch-way——

Cook.[Aside.] Aye, he's come to a wrong place to make a good use of it—it might stand some little chance at a Lord Mayor's feast.

Kidnapper.Now go forward, give 'em something to eat and drink there. [Aside.] Poor devils, they look half starved and naked like ourselves.

Cook.[Aside.] I don't know where the devil they'll get it: the sight of that fellow's mouth is enough to breed a famine on board, if there was not one already.

Sailor.Aye, he'd tumble plenty down his damn'd guts and swallow it, like Jones swallow'd the whale.

Kidnapper.To-morrow you shall have guns like them white men—Can you shoot some of them rebels ashore, Major Cudjo?

Cudjo.Eas, massa, me try.

Kidnapper.Wou'd you shoot your old master, the Colonel, if you could see him?

Cudjo.Eas, massa, you terra me, me shoot him down dead.

Kidnapper.That's a brave fellow—damn 'em—down with them all—shoot all the damn'd rebels.

Serjeant.[Aside.] Brave fellows indeed!

Kidnapper.Serjeant!

Serjeant.I wait your Lordship's commands.

Kidnapper.Serjeant, to-morrow begin to teach those black recruits the exercise, and when they have learn'd sufficiently well to load and fire, then incorporate them among the regulars and the other Whites on board; we shall in a few days have some work for 'em, I expect—be as expeditious as possible. [Aside to him.] Set a guard over them every night, and take their arms from them, for who knows but they may cut our throats.

Serjeant.Very true, My Lord, I shall take particular care.

[ExitKidnapper;SerjeantandNegroeswalk forward.

SceneV.

Serjeant.Damn 'em, I'd rather see half their weight in beef.

Boatswain.Aye, curse their stomachs, or mutton either; then our Cook wou'dn't be so damn'd lazy as he is, strutting about the deck like a nobleman, receiving Paramount's pay for nothing.

Serjeant.Walk faster, damn your black heads. I suppose, Boatswain, when this hell-cat reg'ment's complete, they'll be reviewed in Hyde park?——

Boatswain.Aye, blast my eyes, and our Chaplain with his dirty black gown, or our Cook, shall be their general, and review 'em, for he talks of throwing up his pot-halliards commission, in hopes of it.

Serjeant.Ha, ha, ha.——

Cook.I'd see the devil have 'em first.——

[ExeuntSerjeant, &c.

SceneVI.In the cabin.

Lord Kidnapper,Captain Squires, andChaplain.

Kidnapper.These blacks are no small acquisition, them and the Tories we have on board will strengthen us vastly; thethoughts of emancipation will make 'em brave, and the encouragement given them by my proclamation, will greatly intimidate the rebels—internal enemies are worse than open foes.——

Chaplain.Very true, My Lord; David prayed that he might be preserved from secret enemies.

Kidnapper.Aye, so I've heard, but I look upon this to be a grand manœuvre in politics; this is making dog eat dog—thief catch thief—the servant against his master—rebel against rebel—what think you of that, parson?

Chaplain.A house divided thus against itself cannot stand, according to scripture—My Lord, your observation is truly scriptural.

Kidnapper.Scripture? poh, poh—I've nothing to do with scripture—I mean politically, parson.

Chaplain.I know it very well; sure, My Lord, I understand you perfectly.

Kidnapper.Faith that's all I care for; if we can stand our ground this winter, and burn all their towns that are accessible to our ships, and Colonel Connolly succeeds in his plan, there's not the least doubt but we shall have supplies from England very early in the spring, which I have wrote for; then, in conjunction with Connolly, we shall be able to make a descent where we please, and drive the rebels like hogs into a pen.

Chaplain.And then gather them (as the scriptures say) as a hen gathereth her chickens.

Kidnapper.True, Mr. Scripture.

Captain Squires.Very good, but you must take care of the hawks.

Kidnapper.What do you mean by the hawks, Captain?

Captain Squires.I mean the shirt-men, the rifle-men, My Lord.

Kidnapper.Aye, damn 'em, hawks indeed; they are cursed dogs; a man is never safe where they are, but I'll take care to be out of their reach, let others take their chance, for I see they have no respect to persons—I suppose they wou'd shoot at me, if I were within their reach.

Chaplain.Undoubtedly, they would be more fond of you than of a wild turkey; a parcel of ignorant, unmannerly rascals, they pay no more respect to a Lord than they wou'd to a devil.

Kidnapper.The scoundrels are grown so damn'd impudent too, that one can scarcely get a roasting pig now-a-days, but I'll be even with some of 'em by and by.

Chaplain.I hope we shall get something good for our Christmas dinner—so much abstinence and involuntary mortification, cannot be good for the soul—a war in the body corporal is of more dangerous consequence than a civil war to the state, or heresy and schism to the church.

Kidnapper.Very true, parson—very true—now I like your doctrine—a full belly is better than an empty sermon; preach that doctrine;—stick to that text, and you'll not fail of making converts.

Chaplain.The wisest of men said, there is nothing better, than that a man should enjoy that which he hath, namely, eat, drink, and be merry, if he can.

Kidnapper.You're very right—Solomon was no fool, they say—[He sings.]

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