WALTER. But since 'tis a provocative to Robin's valour-- LARRY. Go to: give a lusty hem, and fall on. _Glee._ We three, adventurers be, Just come from our own country; We have cross'd thrice a thousand ma, Without a penny of money. We three, good fellows be, Who wou'd run like the devil from Indians three; We never admir'd their bowmandry; Oh, give us whole skins for our money. We three, merry men be, Who gaily will chaunt our ancient glee, Though a lass or a glass, in this wild country, Can't be had, or for love, or for money. LARRY. Well, how do you feel? ROBIN. As courageous as, as a-- LARRY. As a wren, little Robin. Are you sure, now, you won't be after fancying every deer that skips by you a divil, and every bush a bear? ROBIN. I defy the devil; but hav'n't you heard, my masters, how the savages go a hunting, drest out in deer-skin? How could you put one in mind, master Larry? O Lord! that I should come a captain-hunting! the only game we put up is deer that carry scalping knives! or if we beat the bush to start a bold commander, up bolts a bloody bear! [_WALTER and LARRY exchange significant nods._ LARRY. To be sure we're in a parlous case. The forest laws are dev'lish severe here: an they catch us trespassing upon their hunting ground, we shall pay a neat poll-tax: nothing less than our heads will serve. ROBIN. Our heads? WALTER. Yes, faith! they'll soon collect their capitation. They wear men's heads, sir, hanging at the breast, Instead of jewels; and at either ear, Most commonly, a child's, by way of ear-drop. ROBIN. Oh! curse their finery! jewels, heads, O Lord! LARRY. Pshaw man! don't fear. Perhaps they'll only burn us. What a delicate roasted Robin you wou'd make! Troth! they'd so lick their lips! ROBIN. A roasted robin!-- WALTER. Tut! if they only burn us, 'twill be brave. Robin shall make our death-songs. ROBIN. Death-songs, oh! [_ROBIN stands motionless with fear._ LARRY. By the good looking right eye of Saint Patrick, There's Rolfe and Percy, with a tribe of Indians. [_Looking out._ ROBIN. Indians! they're pris'ners, and we--we're dead men! [_While WALTER and LARRY exeunt, ROBIN gets up into a tree._] O Walter, Larry! ha! what gone, all gone! Poor Robin, what is to become of thee? _Enter SMITH, POCAHONTAS, NANTAQUAS, PERCY, ROLFE, NIMA and INDIANS, LARRY and WALTER._ SMITH. At hazard of her own dear life she saved me. E'en the warm friendship of the prince had fail'd, And death, inevitable death, hung over me. Oh, had you seen her fly, like Pity's herald, To stay the uplifted hatchet in its flight; Or heard her, as with cherub voice she pled, Like Heav'n's own angel-advocate, for mercy. POCAHONTAS. My brother, speak not so. [_Bashfully._