What makes all doctrines plain and clear? About two hundred pounds a year.— And that which was proved true before, Prove false again?—Two hundred more. _Mr. Hippy._ A dry discussion! Pass the bottle, and moisten it. _Mr. O’Scarum._ Here’s half of us fast asleep. Let us make a little noise to wake us. A glee now: I’ll be one: who’ll join? _Sir Telegraph Paxarett._ I. _The Rev. Mr. Portpipe._ And I. _Mr. Hippy._ Strike up then. Silence! GLEE—THE GHOSTS In life three ghostly friars were we, And now three friarly ghosts we be. Around our shadowy table placed, The spectral bowl before us floats: With wine that none but ghosts can taste We wash our unsubstantial throats. Three merry ghosts—three merry ghosts—three merry ghosts are we: Let the ocean be Port, and we’ll think it good sport To be laid in that Red Sea. With songs that jovial spectres chaunt, Our old refectory still we haunt. The traveller hears our midnight mirth: ‘O list!’ he cries, ‘the haunted choir! The merriest ghost that walks the earth Is sure the ghost of a ghostly friar.’ Three merry ghosts—three merry ghosts—three merry ghosts are we: Let the ocean be Port, and we’ll think it good sport To be laid in that Red Sea. _Mr. Hippy._ Bravo! I should like to have my house so haunted. The deuce is in it, if three such ghosts would not keep the blue devils at bay. Come, we’ll lay them in a bumper of claret. (_Sir Oran Haut-ton took his flute from his pocket, and played over the air of the glee. The company was at first extremely surprised, and then joined in applauding his performance. Sir Oran bowed acknowledgment, and returned his flute to his pocket._)