_Miss G._ I wonder the drum-major isn’t come yet. Does he expect tea can be keeping hot for him to the end of time? He’ll have nothing but slop-dash, though he’s a very genteel man. I’m partial to the military school, I own, and a High lander too is always my white-headed boy. _Gilb._ (_astonished_) Her white-headed boy!--Now, if I was to be hanged for it, I don’t know what that means. _Miss G._ Now where can you have lived, Mr. Gilbert, not to know _that_? _Christy._ (_aside_) By the mass, he’s such a matter-o’-fact-man, I can’t get round him with all my wit. _Miss G._ Here’s the drum-major! Scarlet’s asy seen at a distance, that’s one comfort! _Enter Mr. HOPE._ _Mr. H._ I’m late, Miss Florinda, I fear, for the tea-table; but I had a wee-wee bit of business to do for a young friend, that kept me. _Miss G._ No matter, major, my tapot defies you. Take a cup a tea. Are you fond of music, major? _Mr. H._ Very fond of music, ma’am--do you sing or play? _Miss G._ I do play--I plead guilty to that I own. But in this hole that we are in, there’s no room fitting for my piano. However, in the new inn which we have got now, I’ll fix my piano iligant in the back-parlour. _Mr. H._ In the mean time, Miss Florinda, will you favour us with a song? _Christy._ And I’ll be making the punch, for I’m no songstress. Biddy! Biddy Doyle! hot water in a jerry. _Miss G._ Indeed I’m not used to sing without my piano; but, to oblige the major, I’ll sing by note. _Miss GALLAGHER sings._ Softly breathing through the heart, When lovers meet no more to part; That purity of soul be mine, Which speaks in music’s sound divine. ‘Midst trees and streams of constant love, That’s whispered by the turtle-dove; Sweet cooing cushat all my pray’r, Is love in elegance to share. _Mr. H._ That’s what I call fine, now! Very fine that. [_GILBERT nods._ _Miss G._ (_aside_) Look at that Englishman, now, that hasn’t a word of compliment to throw to a dog, but only a nod. (_Aloud_) ‘Tis the military that has always the souls for music, and for the ladies--and I think, gentlemen, I may step for’ard, and say I’m entitled to call upon you now:--Mr. Gilbert, if you’ve ever a love-song in your composition. _Gilb._ Love-song I can’t say, ma’am; but such as I have--I’m no great hand at composition--but I have one song--they call it, _My choice of a wife._ _Miss G._ Pray let’s have it, sir. _Christy._ Now for it, by Jabus. _Mr. H._ Give it us, Mr. Gilbert. _Enter BIDDY with hot water, and exit._ _GILBERT sings._ There’s none but a fool will wed on a sudden, Or take a fine miss that can’t make a pudding; If he get such a wife, what would a man gain, O! But a few ballad-tunes on a wretched piano? Some ladies than peacocks are twenty times prouder, Some ladies than thunder are twenty times louder; But I’ll have a wife that’s obliging and civil-- For me, your fine ladies may go to the devil!