_Policeman._--Zounds! what is this? it smothers me almost. Is it the gas-pipe? _Capt. C._ No, dash my wig! a ghost! (_Slow music. Apparition of Old Clipclose rises through the stage, dressed in a white shirt, and scarlet nightcap._) ROUNDELAY--_Ghost and Company._ ("Good morrow to you, Madam Joan.") _Ghost._ All in the family way, Whack-fal-li, fal-la-di-day! Are you met here to take tea? Whack-fal-li, &c. Or is it love-making you're come? Tol-de-re-lol, &c. Or to keep clear away from a bum? Whack-fal-li, &c. _Miss S._ Oh, no, sir! we're going to jail, Whack-fal-li, &c. Unless, Mister Ghost, you'll go bail, Whack-fal-li, &c. _Policeman._ A spectre, Miss S. will not do, Whack-fal-li, &c. (_To the Ghost._) Where the blazes! should we look for you? Whack-fal-li, &c. (_Enter Capt. C's four wives._) _1st Wife._ Ah, Terry, you traitor, you're there! Whack-fal-li, &c. _2nd Wife._ As usual, deceiving the fair! Whack-fal-li, &c. _3rd Wife._ You'll pay dear enough for your pranks! Whack-fal-li, &c. _4th Wife._ You're broke, and reduced to the ranks! Whack-fal-li, &c. (_Capt. C. seems thunderstruck, grinds his teeth passionately, then strikes his forehead, and sings._) AIR--_Capt. C._--("The night before Larey was stretch'd.") _Capt. C._ By St. Patrick, I'm done for, at last! From a captain come down to a private. Terry Connor, your glory is past; A very nice pass to arrive at! (_To the Ghost._) I say, you old rum-looking swell, I would deem it a favour, and civil, In spite of your sulphur'ous smell, To take me down stairs to the devil, And get me a troop in his guards. _Ghost_ (_to the Capt._)--Shut your potato-trap! we still refuse-- The corps's so moral--Life-Guardsmen and Blues. _4th Wife._--Cheer up, my Connor; 'twas in jest I spoke, When I affirm'd my best beloved was broke. _Ghost (addressing the company)._--Ladies and Gemmen, give the ghost a hearance, As this, his first, must be his last appearance. (_To Mr. and Mrs. Clipclose_)--Bent upon wedlock, and an heir, to vex ye, If toasted cheese had not brought apoplexy, I died asleep, and left my hard-won riches; Search the left pocket of my dark drab breeches; Open the safe, and there you'll find my will; Deal for cash only and stick to Ludgate-hill; Watch the apprentices, and lock the till; And quit the turf, the finish, and the mill; Turn a new leaf, and leave off former sins; Pay the pieman, and mend young "All-hot's" tins. _Mr. C._ (_doubtfully._)--Did you die rich, dad? _Ghost._ Rich as any Jew; And half a plum, son Bob, devolves on you. _Mrs. C._--What a dear ghost, to die when he was wanted! Will you forgive me?