"Yes--here's an end at last of all privation," she assures them, spreading out her wares, and this ridiculous "little" Buttercup sings: [Music: I'm called little Buttercup, Dear little Buttercup, Though I could never tell why, But still I'm called Buttercup, Poor little Buttercup, Sweet little Buttercup I.] I've snuff and tobaccy, And excellent jacky; I've scissors and watches and knives. I've ribbons and laces To set off the faces Of pretty young sweethearts and wives. I've treacle and toffee, I've tea and I've coffee, Soft tommy and succulent chops, I've chickens and conies, I've pretty polonies, And excellent peppermint drops-- which would imply that Little Buttercup might supply on demand anything from a wrought-iron gate to a paper of toothpicks. "Well, Little Buttercup, you're the rosiest and roundest beauty in all the navy, and we're always glad to see you." "The rosiest and roundest, eh? Did it ever occur to you that beneath my gay exterior a fearful tragedy may be brewing?" she asks in her most mysterious tones. "We never thought of that," the Boatswain reflects. "I have thought of it often," a growling voice interrupts, and everybody looks up to see Dick Deadeye. Dick is a darling, if appearances count. He was named Deadeye because he _had_ a dead-eye, and he is about as sinister and ominous a creature as ever made a comic opera shiver. "You _look_ as if you had often thought of it," somebody retorts, as all move away from him in a manner which shows Dick to be no favourite. "You don't care much about me, I should say?" Dick offers, looking about at his mates. "Well, now, honest, Dick, ye can't just expect to be loved, with such a name as Deadeye." Little Buttercup, who has been offering her wares to the other sailors, now observes a very good-looking chap coming on deck. "Who is that youth, whose faltering feet with difficulty bear him on his course?" Buttercup asks--which is quite ridiculous, if you only dissect her language! Those "faltering feet which with difficulty bear him on his course" belong to Ralph Rackstraw, who is about the most dashing sailor in the fleet. The moment Buttercup hears his name, she gasps to music: "Remorse, remorse," which is very, very funny indeed, since there appears to be nothing at all remarkable or remorseful about Ralph Rackstraw. But Ralph immediately begins to sing about a nightingale and a moon's bright ray and several other things most inappropriate to the occasion, and winds up with "He sang, Ah, well-a-day," in the most pathetic manner. The other sailors repeat after him, "Ah, well-a-day," also in a very pathetic manner, and Ralph thanks them in the politest, most heartbroken manner, by saying: I know the value of a kindly chorus, But choruses yield little consolation When we have pain and sorrow, too, before us! I love, and love, alas! above my station.