I can't with a morsel my hunger relieve.
My stomach so tender, that aches there engender;
The whole blessed day I am crying out, "Oh!"
Drat these grand fashions! they wakens my passions,
A-nippin' and gnawin' my poor stomach so!
(Heads appear as before.)
I've had the lumbager, dyspepsy, and ager,
With tight-fitting veskits and pantaloons too;
Highsterics and swimins, delirious trimins,
St. Vestris's dance, and the tick dolly-oo.
But not the whole gettin', one's body tight fits in,
Is noffin' to this, which is drefful. Oh, oh!
Drat these grand fashions! they wakens my passions,
A-nippin' and gnawin' my poor stomach so!
(Heads disappear.)
Now, there's a touching song to move the heart,
Hark! what's that? I thought I heard them start.
Song: Children, outside; air, "Oh, dear, what can the matter be?"
Oh, dear, what can the matter be?
Dear, dear, what can the matter be?
Oh, dear, what can the matter be?
Somebody's groaning out there!
A hungry old beggar has come here to tease us,
By grinding an organ he knows will not please us.
He hopes it may bring him a handful of pennies,
To buy him a loaf of brown bread.
Enter Old Woman, with Children, L., from behind shoe. The largest hangs on to her skirts, the next in size to the largest, until they dwindle to the smallest; repeat song as they enter slowly, turn to R., march across stage; turn to L., march across again; turn to R., and form across stage.
O. W. Now go away, old man. 'Tis very queer
That you should seek to waste your sweetness here;
For we've no money, not a cent, to pay
For music; so you'd better up and move away.
Santa. Alas, alas! and can you be unkind
To one who's been by Fortune left behind;
Who has no friend, no money, and no clo'es;
The hunted victim of unnumbered woes?
Good dame, I ask not money: if you please,
A simple crust my hunger to appease.
O. W. Good gracious! Starving! Children, do you hear?
The old man's hungry: quickly disappear!
(Children scamper behind shoe.)
Santa. She drives them in. To me 'tis very clear
Old Santa fails to find a welcome here.
O. W. We're very poor, have fasted many a day,
Yet from our door ne'er drove the poor away.
Song; air, "Balm of Gilead," by the Children, who march in as before, carrying sticks, on which are stuck apples, potatoes, crusts of bread, turnip, carrot, "beat," &c. They move around the stage, singing as they pass Santa; the last time, pitch their potatoes, &c., into his tin kitchen. He stands L. of stage; Old Woman, R.