The corsair; or, the little fairy at the bottom of the sea A new Christmas burlesque and pantomime, founded upon the ballet of "Le corsair"

_Conrad._ I might have done. Heigho! _Birb._ Pooh! try some drink--you’re several cups too low. _Conrad._ Nay, I have tried--I drained a flask this minute---- _Birb._ Well, when you’d drained it? _Conrad._ There was nothing in it. All things I’ve tried, but they bring no relief To the used-up, bored, _blase_ pirate chief. Travel I’ve tried, from place to place still dodging, You’ll find me _bored_ where’er you find me lodging. The stormy waves no change to me afford, For if I’m shipwrecked, still I’m over_board_; I’ve sought excitement east, west, north, and south, In battle-strife--e’en at the cannon’s mouth, But all in vain: amid the battle’s roar, I found the cannon’s mouth was but a _bore_! Enough of this. _Birb._ [_Aside._] Too much for me to stand; A pretty fellow to command our band. Oh, I should like to---- [_Raises dagger; CONRAD turns round; BIRBANTO bows after the approved style of melodrama._ _Conrad._ Where’s my galley? _Birb._ [_Pointing off R._] Sir, The _gal_ley’s there--that _buoy_’s attached to her. _Conrad._ Keep her in readiness to sail to-night, In case of accidents. D’ye hear? [_Same business with the dagger._ _Birb._ [_Bowing._] All right! [_Exit CONRAD, R._ It shall be so. We’ve stood him long enough-- A spoony, pining, sentimental muff; He’s not at all my notion of a Corsair-- I like black worsted curls and beard of horsehair; The good old heavy style of melodram, More like the individual I am. Yet the band love him. Well, it is but right To own he is the very deuce to fight, When he begins. No matter! we shall see Which they prefer to lead them--him or me! To sound them on the point, at once I go forth. [_Shaking his fist towards where CONRAD has gone off._ Tremble! Despair! Ha, ha! Revenge! and so forth! _Song._--BIRBANTO.--_Air, “Dusty Bob’s Hornpipe.”_ Scruples, lie down--for in guilt I’m dyed so deep already; Harder ’twould be to go back than to proceed. After the scores that this dagger’s sent to sleep already Why should I pause at one other little deed? Tremble, proud Conrad--a foe you don’t expect in me; Tremble--despair--as, I think, I said before. You once removed--as their leader--they electing me-- Crown all the hopes that so long I’ve pondered o’er. Let them consent, and but once transfer the rule to me, I’d show them how they their work should go about; A ticket-of-leave man himself would be a fool to me; Garotters confess that I beat ’em out and out. Robbing, attacking all--plundering, whacking all-- I get the lion’s share, of course, of all the dibs; If they’ll fall in with it, now I’ll begin with it, Sticking at nothing except our leader’s ribs. [_Exit R._ _Enter a number of female SLAVES, followed by YUSSUF, L._ _Yussuf._ Now then, you tarnal critters, look alive. I have had many lots of slaves to drive, Of all sorts and complexions--black, white, and red; You whip them all--from Uncle Tom to Dred! Come, look alive, I tell you. Take your places, None of your airs--but plenty of your graces. Be careful of your smiles, and mind your eyes; It’s market-day, remember. Come, who buys? _March._--_Enter PASHA, SYNG SMAUL, and GUARDS, R._ _Pasha._ Halt! curs! _Syng._ Halt, curs--d’ye hear? _Pasha._ Of course they hear. _Syng._ [L.] Great Pasha! _Pasha._ Slave, who bid you interfere? _Syng._ I’m dumb. _Yussuf._ [R.] Great Brother of the Sun and Moon, How do you find yourself, this afternoon? _Pasha._ [C.] We thank thee, dog, we’re pretty well. _Syng._ Rejoice! Let all the earth raise high its joyful voice; All care and grief from every heart abolish, Our mighty Pasha, feels himself tol-lol-ish. Shout all of you. [_All shout._ _Pasha._ [_Striking him._] Be quiet-- _Syn._ [_Striking another._] Slaves, be dumb. How dare you make this row-- _Pasha._ But business--come-- What hast thou got to sell, dog? _Yussuf._ Sire, I deem These here Circassians, the Circassian cream Of excellence, in all points--figures--faces-- Trot out, you critters, come, and show your paces. _Music._--_The SLAVES dance out one by one, and pass before the PASHA._ _Pasha._ [_Looking at them one by one._] Too dark! too fair! too red! too short! too tall! Too lean! too fat! pooh! pooh! won’t do at all. Hast thou no others, pig? _Yussuf._ No, sire; you see My wholesale merchant disappointed me; I’ve ordered in some beauties. _Pasha._ Reptile, peace! Who’s this? _Yussuf._ That, sire? Medora, my young niece. _Enter MEDORA, dancing, L._ There, that’ll do--just cut these capers--stop! Must I for ever catch you on the hop? _Medora._ Nay, be not angry, uncle-- _Yussuf._ Then stand still! _Medora._ With pleasure, if it pleases you, I will; But I’m so happy--feel my heart so light; The air’s so balmy, and the sun so bright. The gladness that’s inspired by all around, Finds vent in _jumps_, because it knows no _bound_. _Pasha._ She’ll do! Come hither, dog, a word with you. [_YUSSUF approaches, they whisper, L. C._ _Medora._ [_Uneasy._] What’s that dark stranger, whispering? _Pasha._ Pooh! pooh! _Yussuf._ But, sire, to sell one’s niece, like any nigger! ’Possums and rattlesnakes! Say what’s the figure? _Pasha._ [L.C.] Name your own price. _Yussuf._ [L.] My niece--so good, so true-- So dear to me. Well, she’ll be dear to you, What say you to one thousand chequeens? _Pasha._ Done. _Yussuf._ [_Aside._] I wish I’d ask’d him five, instead of one. _Medora._ What strange presentiment of woe comes o’er me? _Pasha._ Conduct her home. _Syng._ Fair slave, just march before me! _Medora._ Slave! knave! behave! I am no slave--I’m free! You are deceived; _Syng._ Nay, you are sold--not me; _Medora._ I sold! Who’d dare to sell me? _Syng._ Can’t you guess-- _Medora._ Oh, my prophetic soul! my uncle-- _Yussuf._ Yes; I’m very sorry, but-- _Medora._ You sorry--stuff! _Yussuf._ I guess I am. [_Aside._] I didn’t charge enough. _Medora._ [_To PASHA._] I am no slave, good sir, I’m free--then please ye, To calm my fears, and make me free and easy. _Yussuf._ There! don’t orationize the case about. _Medora._ If you’re my uncle, you will let me spout. _Pasha._ No words--you are my slave. [_Seizes her._ _Medora._ Help! help! _Enter CONRAD, R._ _Conrad._ How now? Some work for me it seems; I like a row. [_Draws sword._ Villains! _Pasha._ Holloa! _Medora._ Sir, save me if you can-- _Conrad._ Yes, I’ll _see fair_; I’m a _sea-faring_ man; And on the stage no sailor can do less, Than rescue lovely women in distress: And so here goes. [_Throws SYNG SMAUL across to R._--_Tableau._ _Pasha._ Guards, hew him limb from limb! _Medora._ No, mercy! take my life, but pardon him. _Conrad._ Pooh! pooh! fair maid, let them come on--they dare not; Come--the whole lot of you at once--I care not. _Song._--CONRAD.--_Air, “La tremenda ultrice Spada.”_ Ten to one, now come on to the attack, sirs, Were it ten times ten I’d not yield, sirs, What’s the odds, I myself still back, sirs, Ten to one on the favorite ’gainst the field. Ten to one--who says done?--still no takers, Ten to one--you, my friends, are quakers, Ten to one--you’ll say done in a crack, sirs. When my name and my address I have revealed. _Yussuf._ [R.] Go at him--all at once. [_GUARDS rush forward._ _Conrad._ Stay! by-the-bye, You’d like to know, p’rhaps, who I am? _Pasha._ Not I! _Conrad._ Well, mind you, I can fight--I give you warning. _Medora._ Who can it be, these fearful odds thus scorning? _Pasha._ My guards are ready. _Medora._ Stay--your name avow! _Conrad._ Conrad the Corsair! [_GUARDS shrink away._ Are they ready now? _Yussuf._ Jerusalem! [_Exit, R., followed by the GIRLS._ _Pasha._ The Corsair! murder! fire! [_Runs out, followed by GUARDS, L._ _Conrad._ [L.] Fair maid, you’re safe--permit me to retire. _Medora._ [R.] Nay, fly not yet, or else let me fly too, I’m not safe here--they’ll soon return. _Conrad._ That’s true, And doubtless, though the case I’ve yet to learn, You’ll get small profit by their quick return; But still to come with me---- _Medora._ Oh, take me hence! I will not put you to the least expense; I’ll work my passage out--wash, cook, bake, brew for you. Will be your slave, and regularly do for you. _Conrad._ [_Aside._] I fear you would, if long at you I looked, And my own goose be the first thing you cooked. [_Aloud._] But think upon the dangers of the sea. _Medora._ Those dangers have no terrors, sir, for me. _Conrad._ A common boast--the would-be yachting man, Who talked so bravely ere the trip began, I have seen rush, at the first lurch, to leeward, His boasting sunk in one faint cry of “steward.” _Medora._ Fear not my courage; take me with you, do. _Conrad._ I’ve half a mind. _Medora._ I should be safe with you; But if left here alone, then should I be