May-day: or, the little gipsy: A musical farce, of one act. To which is added The theatrical candidates. A musical prelude. As they are both performed at the Theatre-Royal, in Drury-Lane.

SCENE II.

A Country Prospect,

A VILLAGE and a MAY-POLE, with a GARLAND.

Lads and Lasses are discover'd dancing, while others are playing on the ground.

After the Dance, they surround the May-Pole and sing the following

CHORUS.

O lovely sweet May! The first of sweet May! Spring opens her treasure, Of mirth, love and pleasure The earth is dress'd gay, We see all around, and we hear from each spray, That nature proclaims it a festival day.

CLOD.

Well sung my lasses—which of you all will have 'Squire Goodwill's legacy? I don't believe that any of you are in the right road to it—it must be turn'd over to the next year, and then I shall marry one of you out of pity, and get double by it.

BET.

I'll assure you, Goodman Clod—I would not have you for double, and double, and double—

CLOD.

The grapes are sour, Betty—

NAN.

What a sin, and a shame is it—that a poor girl should miss such a fine fortune, for want of a sweetheart.

BET.

It's a sin, and a shame that there's no young fellow to be had for love or money—The devil is in 'em I believe.

NAN.

They are like their betters in London—they marry, as they would do any thing for money—but then they yawn, and had rather let it alone.

CLOD.

What the duce, have we got any maccato|nies in the country?

BET.

Maccatonies! What are them, Clod?

CLOD.

Tho'f I saw a power of'em, when I was up among 'em, yet I hardly know what to make of 'em.—

BET.

What were they living creters?

CLOD.

Yea, and upon two legs, too—Such as they were.

NAN.

What like christians?

CLOD.

'Ecod I don't know what they're alike, not I—they look like something—and yet they are no|thing—I heard a person say, I sat next to at the show play (for I would see every thing) that these maccato|nies, say themselves they have no souls, and I say they have no bodies, and so we may well say that they look like something, and are nothing, 'ecod.

BET.

Come prithee Clod, let's hear all about what you saw in London, and about the fine ladies too, what did they look like pray?

CLOD.

Like a hundred things, all in one day, but my song that I got there, will tell you better all about it, than I can.

I.

What's a poor simple clown, To do in the town, Of their freaks, and fagaries, I'll none, The folks I saw there, Two faces did wear, An honest man ne'er has but one.

CHORUS.

Let others to London go roam, I love my neighbour, To sing and to labour, To me there's nothing like country and home.

II.

Nay the ladies, I vow, I cannot tell how, Were now white as curd, and now red; Law! how would you stare, At their huge crop of hair, Tis a haycock o'top of their head!

CHO.

Let others, &c.

III.

Then 'tis so dizen'd out, An with trinkets about, With Ribbands and flippets between; They so noddle and toss, Just like a fore horse, With tossels, and bells in a team.

CHO.

Let others, &c.

IV.

Then the fops are so fine, With lank wasted chine, A nd a littleskimp bit of a hat; Which from sun, wind, and rain, Will not shelter their brain, Tho' there's no need to take care of that.

CHO.

Let others, &c.

V.

" Would you these creatures ape, " In looks, and their shape, " Teach a calf on his hind legs to go; " Let him waddle in gait, " A skim-dish on his pate, " And he'll look all the world like a Beau.

CHO.

" Let others, &c.

VI.

" To keep my brains right, " My bones whole and tight, " To speak, nor to look, would I dare; " As they bake they shall brew, " Old Nick and his crew, " At London keep Vanity Fair.

CHO.

" Let others, &c.

ALL.

Well sung, Clod—

BET.

But, tell us, Clod—how did young Will Fur|row behave in London?—he rak'd it about, I suppose, and that makes him so scornful to us.

CLOD.

Poor lad! he was more mop'd than I was; he's not scornful—His Father, shame upon him, cross'd him in love, and he sent him there to forget it.

NAN.

And he ought to be cross'd in love; what does he mean by taking his love out of the parish? if

he has lost one there, he may find another here, egad, and I had lik'd to have said a better.

CLOD.

Ay, but that's as he thinks—if he loves lamb, he won't like to be cramm'd with Pork—Ha, ha, ha!

BET.

His father wou'd send him to the market town to make a schollard of him, which only gave him a hankering to be proud, to wear a tucker and despise his neighbours.

CLOD.

Here he comes, and let him speak for him|self—he looks as gay as the best of us.

Enter WILLIAM.

WM.

My sweet lasses, a merry May to you all—I must have the priviledge of the day—Kisses and the first of May have ever gone together in our Village, and I hate to break thro' a good old custom.

[Kisses 'em]

BET.

Old customs are good all the year round, and there can't be a better than this—

[Curtsy's and Kisses him.

[The tabor and pipe is heard.]

CLOD.

Come, come, adon with your kissing, for here comes the cryer to proclaim 'Squire Goodwill's legacy.

Enter CRYER, tabor and pipe playing.

CRY.

O yes! O yes! O yes! Be it known to all lads lasses of this Village of Couple-Well, that George Goodwill, Esq late of Bounty-Hall, in this County, has made the following bequest—You, my lads, open your ears, and you, my lasses, hold your tongues, and hear his worship's legacy.

CLOD.

Silence—Silence.

CRYER, reads.

Is there a maid, and maid she be, But how to find her out, who knows?

CLOD.

Who knows indeed!

CRY.

Silence, and don't disturb the court.

Is there a maid, and maid she be,

[reads.

But how to find her out, who knows? Who makes a choice that's fit and free, To buy the wedding cloaths; If such rare maid and match be found, Within the Parish bound, The first of May, Shall be the day, I give this pair a hundred pound, God save the King!

[Exit Cryer, the lads and lasses huzzaing!

WM.

Well, my good girls, and which of you is to have the hundred pound legacy?

NAN.

Any of us, if you will give us a right and title—what say you to that Mr. William? The money ought not to go out of the parish.

BET.

Ay come now—here are choice; you must be very nice indeed, if one of us, and a hundred pound won't satisfy you.

CLOD.

'Ecod but he knows a trick worth two of that.

(aside.

BET.

Well, what say you, Mr. Will?

WM.

I like you all so well, that I can't find in my heart to take one of you without the others.

NAN.

What, would you make a great Turk of us, and live like a heathen in a serallery?

WILLIAM.

I.

Yes, I'll give my heart away, To her will not forsake it, Softly maidens, softly pray, You must not snatch, Nor fight, nor scratch, But gently, gently take it.

II.

Ever constant warm and true, The toy is worth the keeping, 'Tis not spoild with fashions new; But full of love, It will not rove— The corn is worth the reaping.

III.

Maidens, come, put in your claim, I will not give it blindly: My heart a lamb, tho' brisk is tame; So let each lass, Before me pass, Who wins, pray use it kindly.

IV.

All have such bewitching ways, To give to one would wrong ye; In turns to each my fancy strays; So let each fair, Take equal share, I throw my heart among ye.

CLOD.

You may as well throw your hat among 'em, Master William; these lasses cannot live upon such slender fare, as a bit of your heart.

WM.

Then they must fast, Clod; for I have not even a bit of my heart to give them.

(aside.)

What in the name of May, neighbours, comes tripping thro' Farmer Danby's gate, and looks like May from top to toe.

CLOD.

As I hope to be marry'd 'tis the Little Gipsy that has got a bit of your father's heart; aye, and a good bit too, and holds it fast.

JEN.

I'll be hang'd if she's not going to the Grange now—Your father casts a sheep's eye at her—He hinders his own son from wedding lawfully, while he is running after this Little Gipsy—I hope she'll run away with his silver tankard.

WM.

Upon my word I think my father has a good taste. How long has she been amongst you? who is she? what is she? and whence comes she?

JEN.

That we neither know, nor can guess—She always comes out of 'Squire Grinly's Copse, but no|body knows how she gets there—Clod dog'd her t'other night, but she took care to throw something in his eyes, that struck fire, and half blinded him.

CLOD.

Ay, feath, did she; and while I was rub|bing 'em, she vanished away, and left me up to my middle in a bog.

WM.

Poor Clod! you paid dearly for peeping.

BET.

I wish she would sing! she is a perfect nightingale.

WM.

Hush! hark! I hear something—let's go back, or she may be sham'd fac'd—She's very young, and seems very modest—True merit is always bash|ful, and should never want for encouragement: She comes this way—let us keep back a little.

(They retire.

Enter LITTLE GIPSY.

GIPSY.

Hail, Spring! whose charms make nature gay, O breathe some charm on me, That I may bless this joyful day, Inspir'd by Love, and thee!

O Love! be all thy magic mine, Two faithful hearts to save; The glory as the cause be thine, And heal the wounds you gave.

What a character am I oblig'd to support? I shall certainly be discover'd—the country folks I see are retir'd to watch me, and my sweet heart among 'em—I am more afraid of a discovery from these, than from wiser people—Cunning will very often over|shoot the mark, while simplicity hits it. I must rely upon my dress and manner—if I can but manage to tell other people's fortune, tho' but falsely, I may really make my own.

CLOD.

She mutters something to herself; I wish I could hear what she is maundring about.

WM.

Fortune-tellers always do so—the devil must be always talk'd to very civilly, and not loud, or he won't be at their elbow.

CLOD.

Lord bless her, there's no harm in her—I wish I was the devil to be so talk'd to.

GIP.

What a frolick have I begun! should I suc|ceed, our present distress will double our succeeding happiness—

(The country people come forward.

Your servant, pretty maids, and to you also young men, if you are good, for naughtiness, they say, has found its way into the country—I hope none of you have seen it.

WM.

O, yes; I have seen enough of it, it hangs about one like a pest; and for fear my cloaths should be infected, I order'd that they should be burnt before I left London.

CLOD.

Ay, ay, wickedness there sticks to a body like pitch.

GIP.

Then I'll fly away from the infection.

(going.

WM.

No, no, you little Gipsy, that won't do, we must hear that sweet voice again, and have our fortunes told before you go away.

(They lay hold upon her.

JEN.

I vow, neighbours, I think I have seen this face before.

GIP.

It is not worth looking upon a second time.

WM.

Indeed but it is, I could look at it for ever.

CLOD.

'Ecod and so could I, and buss it into the bargain.

BET Law, don't make such a fuss with the poor girl, as if nobody was worth kissing but a Gipsy—sing away, child, and don't mind 'em.

GIP.

No more I will, mistress.

(Curtseys.

GYPSY.

I.

O spread thy rich mantle, sweet May, o'er the ground, Drive the blasts of keen winter away; Let the birds sweetly carol, thy flow'rets smile round, And let us with all nature be gay.

II.

Let spleen, spight, and envy, those clouds of the mind, Be dispers'd by the sunshine of joy; The pleasures of Eden had bless'd human kind, Had no fiend enter'd there to destroy.

III.

As May with her sunshine can warm the cold earth, Let each fair with the season improve; Be widows restor'd from their mourning to mirth, And hard-hearted maids yield to love.

IV.

With the treasures of spring, let the village be dress'd, Its joys let the season impart; When rapture swells high, and o'erflows from each breast, 'Tis the May of the mind and the heart.

WM.

Now you have charm'd our ears one way, my sweet Gipsy, delight our hearts by telling us our fortunes.

CLOD.

Here are fine cross doings in my hond.

(shewing it.

JEN.

Pray look into mine first.

(Cleaning her hand)

DOL.

Here's a hand for you, Gipsy!

(shewing hers.

GIP.

I never saw a worse in all my life; bless me! here is—it frights me to see it!

DOL.

Then I am sure it will fright me to hear it, so I'll stay till another time.

WM.

Little pretty Gipsy, what say you to mine?

GIP.

(Looking into his hand)

You have a dozen lasses in love with you, and are in love with none of 'em.

CLOD.

There's a little witch for you!

WM.

There you are out, Gipsy; I do love one truly and sincerely.

GIP.

As much as you love me—don't believe him, lasses—Come, come, let me see your hand again—by the faith of a Gipsy, you are in love, and the lass that you love—

ALL.

Who is she?

(Getting about her.

GIP.

She is in this parish, and not above twenty yards from the maypole.

CLOD.

The dickens she is! who? who is it?

(All looking out.

WIL.

Say no more, Gipsy; you know nothing at all of the matter; you should be whip'd for fibbing.

CLOD.

And I'll be the constable; but 'ecod I would not hurt her.

GIP.

Ay, but I do know, and she is about my size.

(They all measure with her.

WM.

Hold your tongue I say—here comes your mother I suppose.

Enter DOLLY, like an old Gipsy.

DOL.

What, did you run away from me you little baggage? Have I not warn'd you from wandering in the fields by yourself these wicked times?

GIP.

Pray, mother, don't be angry; the morning was so fine, the fields so charming, and the lads and lasses so merry, I could not stay at home, and I knew you'd come limping after—

DOL.

Hussy, hussy! have not I told you, that when the kid wanders from its dam, the fox will have a breakfast.

CLOD.

'Ecod, and a good breakfast too—it makes my mouth water.

DOL.

I don't much like the company you are in—who is that young rake there?

WM

One that hates kid mother, and is only giving your daughter a little good advice.

DOL.

Indeed the young fellows of this age are not so rampant as they were in my days.—Well, my lads and lasses, who among you longs to know their for|tunes? I am the oldest, and the best fortune-teller under the sun.

(They all gather about her.

WM.

Now, my dear little Gipsy, you must tell me my fortune.

(They retire, and the rest get about Dolly.

JEN.

Now for it, mother.

DOLLY.

Young maids, and young swains, if you're curious to know, What husbaads you'll have, and what wives; From above I can know, what you'll do here below, And what you have done all your lives:

Don't blush and don't fear, As I'm old I am wise, And I read in your eyes— I must whisper the rest in your ear.

If you, a false man, should betray a fond maid, I'll read what the stars have decreed; If you, a fond maid, should be ever betray'd, You'll be sorry that page I should read.

Don't blush, and don't fear, &c.

If youth weds old age, tho' it wallows in gold, With sattins, and silks, and fine watch; Yet when for base gold, youth and beauty is sold, The devil alone makes the match.

Don't blush, and don't fear, &c.

" If an old man's so rash, to wed a young wife, " Or an old woman wed a young man; " For such husband and wife, I read danger and strife, " For nature detests such a plan.

" Don't blush, and don't fear, &c."

CLOD.

There's a slap o'the chops for old measter, 'ecod, I wish he was here to take it.

JEN.

But now, come to particulars, goody Gipsy.

NAN.

Ay, ay, to particulars, we must have par|ticulars.

CLOD.

Ay, zooks, let's understand your gibberish.

DOL.

Let me sit down upon the bench under yonder tree, and I'll tell you all I know.

CLOD.

And he that desires to know more is a fool—come along, Dame D••al-Devil.

(They retire with Dolly, and then William and Gipsy come forward.

WM.

May heaven prosper what love has invented; and may this joyful day finish our cares for ever!

WILLIAM and GIPSY.

DUETTO.

Passion of the purest nature, Glows within this faithful breast, While I gaze on each lov'd feature, Love will let me know no rest.

Thus the ewe her lamb caressing, Watches with a mother's fear, While she eyes her little blessing, Thinks the cruel wolf is near.

FUR.

(without)

Where is the Gipsy? where is my little Gipsy, I say?

WM.

The wolf is near indeed, for here comes my father.

GIP.

What shall we do?

Enter FURROW.

FUR.

Where are the lads and lasses, and what are you two doing here alone?

WM.

Had I my will, we should not long have been here alone: I would have put her into the hands of the constable, and sent her to her parish.

(Gipsy looks grave.

FUR.

She has cheated him too—that's excellent! this is a rare frolic, faith

(aside.)

You send her to the constable, you booby!—I should have put you in the stocks if you had, Sirrah—don't be grave, my little pretty Gipsy, that bumkin shan't hurt you—what a fine may-game this is!—I love her more than ever!—I'll marry her to-day, and have the hundred pounds too—

(aside.

GIP.

I'll go home directly, I can't bear to see that young man look so cross

(going.

FUR.

You shall go to my home, my dainty sweet Gipsy, and make him look crosser.

WM.

I wonder, father, you are not asham'd of yourself, to be impos'd upon by such a little pilfering creature, she ought to be whip'd from village to village, and made an example of.—

FUR.

How the fool is taken in!—I'm out of my wits

(aside.)

I'll make an example of you, rascal, if you don't speak more tenderly to that lady.

WM.

Lady! a fine lady! ha! ha! ha!

GIP.

Don't put yourself into a rage with him, he is mad they say, mad for love.

FUR.

So am I too—I am his father, and have more right to be mad than he has.

WM.

A lady!—A Gipsy lady!—ha, ha, ha!

FUR.

And what is more, Mr. Impudence, she shall be my lady—and then what will you say to that, rascal?

WM.

That you have got a fine lady.

FUR.

Have I given you a good education, you ungrateful whelp you, to laugh at me? Get out of my sight, or I'll spoil your mummery—I will—

(Holding up his stick.

WM.

I am gone, Sir—one word if you please—You prevented me from being happy with the choice of my heart, and to one superior to her sex in every quality of the mind, and now without the excuse of youth on your part, or the least merit on her's—As you have made me miserable with great cruelty, you are going to make yourself so without reason. And so, Sir, I am your's, and that fair lady's very humble servant—Ha, ha, ha!

(Exit William.

FUR.

If I had not resolv'd not to be in a passion this first of May, the festival of our Village, I should have sent him to the bottom of our horse-pond; but I can't help laughing neither, you have done it so featly—How the poor boy was taken in; he! he! he!—fine frolick, faith! And now, Miss, I will open my mind more to you; why should we lose a hundred pounds?—I'll marry you to day—the better day, the better deed.—What say you, my little Gipsy?

GIP.

It will make a great noise!

FUR.

I love a noise—what is any body good for, without noise—besides we shall be the happiest cou|ple for a hundred miles round.

GIP.

Not while your son is miserable—make him happy first, and then nobody can blame you.

FUR.

What a sweet creature you are! Don't trouble your head about such a fellow, I'll turn him out of the house to seek his fortune, and so he'll be provided for.

GIP.

If he is not happy, I shall be miserable, nor would I be a Queen at the expence of another's hap|piness, for all the world.

FUR.

What a sweet creature you are!—and how happy shall I be; the rascal shall know your kind|ness to him, and how little he deserves it—it shall be done, and the Village shall know it is all your do|ings. And here they come! now for it! I am ten times happier than I was this morning!

Enter all the Lads and Lasses.

Come, where is my son, where is Scapegrace?

CLOD.

Here, Master William!

Enter WILLIAM.

Here's Scapegrace, Sir.

FUR.

Now you shall know what a fine lady this is, or rather how unlike a fine lady she is. This pilferer, wretch, baggage, and so on—she vows not to be made happy till you are so—and so being prevail'd upon by her—and her alone—I give you my consent to marry the girl you were so fond of, or any girl of character, and before all my neighbours here, on this joyful holiday, the first of May, and I likewise consent to give you the Bilberry-farm, to maintain her and my grand children.

WM.

If you indulge my inclination, I have no right to find fault with your's—be my choice where it will, you will be satisfy'd.

FUR.

More than satisfy'd—I will rejoice at it, and reward it—name the party, boy.

(The girls stand all round with great seeming anxiety.)

WM.

I always did obey you, and will now.

(looking at, and passing by the other girls,

This—this is my choice.

takes the Little Gipsy by the hand.)

CLOD.

Zooks! here's a fine over-turn in a horse-pond.

(aside.)

FUR.

He's crack'd, sure!

WM.

I was, Sir, and almost broken hearted; but your kindness, consent, and generosity, have made me a man again, and thus we thank you.

(They kneel to him.)

FUR.

This is some may-game—do you know her?—and does she know you?

WM.

We have known each other long—this is she father, I saw, lov'd, and was betroth'd to; but your command separated us for a time—in my absence to London, she was here under the name of Belton; you saw her often, and lik'd her, nay lov'd her—it was our innocent device, that you might see her merits, and not think 'em unworthy of your son—You over-run our expectations, and we delay'd the discovery till this, we hope, happy moment.

CLOD.

You must forgive 'em, measter.

ALL.

To be sure.

FUR.

I can't—I am trick'd and cheated—I can't recal the farm; but I can, and I will—

(walks about angrily.

CLOD.

Be more foolish if you please—you have trick'd, and cheated yourself, measter—but heav'n has been kind to you, and set all to rights again—

GIPSY.

(Addressing herself to Furrow.)

I.

Love reigns this season, makes his choice, And shall not we with birds rejoice? O calm your rage, hear nature say, Be kind with me the first of May.

II.

Would you, like misers, hate to bless, Keep wealth from youth you can't possess? To nature hark, you'll hear her say, Be kind with me the first of May.

III.

Oh! then be bounteous, like the spring, Which makes creation sport and sing, With nature let your heart be gay, And both be kind this first of May.

FUR.

I won't be sung out of my senses—

Enter DOZEY, drunk.

DOZ.

Where is he? where is the bridegroom? I have it, I have it—October has done it!—it has inspir'd me! and the legacy shall be old George Furrow's, or I will never taste October again—I have got you the money, old boy!

(claps him on the shoulder.)

FUR.

You are got drunk, you old fool, and I don't want the money.

(sulky.)

DOZ.

What, you are sick of marriage, and don't want the wife perhaps—did not I tell you, it was not

fit? was not I free enough to tell you so?—it is not fit.

FUR.

This drunken old fool compleats my misery.

DOZ.

Old fool! what Mr. Pot, do you abuse your friend kettle?—old fool am I?—now judge, neigh|bours—I have been drinking October to make this a joyful May-Day, and he wants to marry a young girl to turn it into sackcloth and ashes—who's old fool now?

FUR.

Take him away.

DOZ.

I shall take myself away—Lasses, if any of you long for the legacy, and are not engag'd, I am your man—that old fellow, there, would have married a child in sober sadness; but I have been courting a good bottle of October, and now, having lost my senses, I am free and fit to marry any body—

(Exit reeling.)

ALL.

Ha, ha, ha!

FUR.

Where's Dolly?—was she in this plot?

WM.

In that part of it you gave her: she perform'd the old Gipsy to a miracle, as these lasses can testify, and then went home to prepare the May feast.

FUR.

I will have no feast.

(sulky.)

JEN.

Was she the old Gipsy?

BET.

It is all a dream to me!

FUR.

I can't come to rights again.—

(The lads and lasses push the Gipsy and William towards him, saying—to him, to him.)

CLOD.

Never was known such a thing as ill-nature and unkindness in our village, on the first of May, for these ten thousand years.

FINALE.

CLOD.

Shall our hearts on May-day, Lack and a well a day! Want their recreation? No, no, no, it can't be so, Love with us must bud and blow, Unblighted by vexation.

WILLIAM.

Shall a maid on May-day, Lack and a well a day! Die of desperation? No, no, no, for pity's sake, To your care a couple take, And give 'em consolation.

GIPSY.

Shall a youth on May-day, Lack and a well a day! Lament a separation? No, no, no, the lad is true, Let him have of love his due, Indulge his inclination.

FURROW.

Shall my heart on May-day, Lack and a well a day! Refuse its approbation? No, no, no, within our breast, Rage, revenge, and such like guests, Shou'd ne'er have habitation.

WILLIAM and GIPSY.

We no more on May-day, O, what a happy day! Shall never know vexation: No, no, no, your worth we'll sing, Join your name to bounteous spring, In kind commemoration!

GRAND CHORUS.

" Cold winter will fly, " When spring's warmer sky, " The charms of young nature display: " When the heart is unkind, " With the frost of the mind, " Benevolence melts it like May."