Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring, Suspend your conversation while I sing. MRS. BULKLEY. Why, sure the girl’s beside herself! an Epilogue of singing? A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning! Besides, a singer in a comic set! Excuse me, Ma’am, I know the etiquette. MISS CATLEY. What if we leave it to the House? MRS. BULKLEY. The House!--Agreed. MISS CATLEY. Agreed. MRS. BULKLEY. And she, whose party’s largest, shall proceed. And first, I hope, you’ll readily agree, I’ve all the critics and the wits for me: They, I am sure, will answer my commands; Ye candid-judging few, hold up your hands; What, no return? I find too late, I fear, That modern judges seldom enter here. MISS CATLEY. I’m for a different set,--old men, whose trade is Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies-- _Recitative._ Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling, Still thus address the fair, with voice beguiling: _Air._--_Cotillon._ Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever Strephon caught thy ravish’d eye; Pity take on your swain so clever, Who without your aid must die. Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu, Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho, _Da Capo._ MRS. BULKLEY. Let all the old pay homage to your merit: Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit. Ye travell’d tribe, ye maccaroni train, Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain, Who take a trip to Paris once a year, To dress and look like awkward Frenchmen here; Lend me your hands.--O, fatal news to tell! Their hands are only lent to the Heinel.[54] MISS CATLEY. Ay, take your travellers--travellers, indeed! Give me the 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 bonnie young Lad is my Jockey._ I’ll 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 Sandie, and Sawnie, and Jockey, With Sawnie, 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 call’d 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._