Ay, take your travellers—travellers indeed! Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed. Where are the chiels?—Ah! ah, I well discern The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn. _Air.—A bonny young Lad is my Jocky._ I sing to amuse you by night and by day, And be unco merry when you are but gay; When you with your bagpipes are ready to play, My voice shall be ready to carol away With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey, With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey. MRS. BULKLEY. Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit, Make but of all your fortune one _va toute_: Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, "I hold the odds.—Done, done, with you, with you." Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, "My Lord,—Your Lordship misconceives the case." Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner, "I wish I'd been called in a little sooner:" Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, Come end the contest here, and aid my party. MISS CATLEY. _Air.—Ballinamony_ Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack, Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack; For—sure I don't wrong you—you seldom are slack, When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back. For you're always polite and attentive, Still to amuse us inventive, And death is your only preventive: Your hands and your voices for me. MRS. BULKLEY. Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring, We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring? MISS CATLEY. And that our friendship may remain unbroken, What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken? MRS. BULKLEY. Agreed. MISS CATLEY. Agreed. MRS. BULKLEY. And now with late repentance, Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence. Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit. [_Exeunt._ THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. A COMEDY. PREFACE.