Hail, men-o'-war's men-safeguards of your nation
Here is an end, at last, of all privation;
You've got your play—spare all you can afford
To welcome Little Buttercup on board.
ARIA
For 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, and pretty polonies,
And excellent peppermint drops.
Then buy of your Buttercup—dear Little Buttercup;
Sailors should never be shy;
So, buy of your Buttercup—poor Little Buttercup;
Come, of your Buttercup buy!
BOAT. Aye, Little Buttercup—and well called—for you're the
rosiest,
the roundest, and the reddest beauty in all Spithead.
BUT. Red, am I? and round—and rosy! Maybe, for I have
dissembled well!
But hark ye, my merry friend—hast ever thought that beneath a
gay and
frivolous exterior there may lurk a canker-worm which is slowly
but
surely eating its way into one's very heart?
BOAT. No, my lass, I can't say I've ever thought that.
Enter DICK DEADEYE. He pushes through sailors, and comes down
DICK. I have thought it often. (All recoil from him.)
BUT. Yes, you look like it! What's the matter with the man?
Isn't he
well?
BOAT. Don't take no heed of him; that's only poor Dick Deadeye.
DICK. I say—it's a beast of a name, ain't it—Dick Deadeye?
BUT. It's not a nice name.
DICK. I'm ugly too, ain't I?
BUT. You are certainly plain.
DICK. And I'm three-cornered too, ain't I?
BUT. You are rather triangular.
DICK. Ha! ha! That's it. I'm ugly, and they hate me for it; for
you all
hate me, don't you?
ALL. We do!
DICK. There!
BOAT. Well, Dick, we wouldn't go for to hurt any fellow
creature's
feelings, but you can't expect a chap with such a name as Dick
Deadeye to
be a popular character—now can you?
DICK. No.
BOAT. It's asking too much, ain't it?
DICK. It is. From such a face and form as mine the noblest
sentiments
sound like the black utterances of a depraved imagination It is
human
nature—I am resigned.
RECITATIVE
BUT. (looking down hatchway).
But, tell me—who's the youth whose faltering feet
With difficulty bear him on his course?
BOAT. That is the smartest lad in all the fleet—
Ralph Rackstraw!
BUT. Ha! That name! Remorse! remorse!
Enter RALPH from hatchway
MADRIGAL—RALPH
The Nightingale
Sighed for the moon's bright ray
And told his tale
In his own melodious way!
He sang "Ah, well-a-day!"
ALL. He sang "Ah, well-a-day!"
The lowly vale
For the mountain vainly sighed,
To his humble wail
The echoing hills replied.
They sang "Ah, well-a-day!"
All. They sang "Ah, well-a-day!"
RECITATIVE
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!
BUT. (aside). He loves—and loves a lass above his station!
ALL (aside). Yes, yes, the lass is much above his station!
Exit LITTLE BUTTERCUP
BALLAD—RALPH
A maiden fair to see,
The pearl of minstrelsy,
A bud of blushing beauty;
For whom proud nobles sigh,
And with each other vie
To do her menial's duty.
ALL. To do her menial's duty.
A suitor, lowly born,
With hopeless passion torn,
And poor beyond denying,
Has dared for her to pine
At whose exalted shrine
A world of wealth is sighing.
ALL. A world of wealth is sighing.
Unlearned he in aught
Save that which love has taught
(For love had been his tutor);
Oh, pity, pity me—
Our captain's daughter she,
And I that lowly suitor!
ALL. And he that lowly suitor!
BOAT. Ah, my poor lad, you've climbed too high: our worthy
captain's
child won't have nothin' to say to a poor chap like you. Will
she, lads?
ALL. No, no.
DICK. No, no, captains' daughters don't marry foremast hands.
ALL (recoiling from him). Shame! shame!
BOAT. Dick Deadeye, them sentiments o' yourn are a disgrace to
our
common natur'.
RALPH, But it's a strange anomaly, that the daughter of a man
who hails
from the quarter-deck may not love another who lays out on the
fore-yard
arm. For a man is but a man, whether he hoists his flag at the
main-truck