And faith I'm not behind; this Pack is heavy.

But stop; we must conceal the tawny Dogs, Or their blood-thirsty Countrymen will find them, And then we're bit. There'll be the Devil to pay, They'll murder us, and cheat the Hangman too.

ORSBOURN.

Right. We'll prevent all Mischief of this Kind.

Where shall we hide their savage Carcases?

HONNYMAN.

There they will lie conceal'd and snug enough-- [_They cover them._ But stay--perhaps ere long there'll be a War, And then their Scalps will sell for ready Cash Two Hundred Crowns at least, and that's worth saving.

ORSBOURN.

Well! that is true, no sooner said than done-- [_Drawing his knife._ I'll strip this Fellow's painted greasy Skull.

[_Strips off the scalp._

HONNYMAN.

A d.a.m.n'd tough Hide, or my Knife's devilish dull-- [_Takes the other scalp._ Now let them sleep to-night without their Caps, And pleasant Dreams attend their long Repose.

ORSBOURN.

Their Guns and Hatchets now are lawful Prize, For they'll not need them on their present Journey.

HONNYMAN.

The Devil hates Arms, and dreads the Smell of Powder; He'll not allow such Instruments about him, They're free from training now, they're in his Clutches.

ORSBOURN.

But, Honnyman, d'ye think this is not Murder?

I vow I'm shock'd a little to see them scalp'd, And fear their Ghosts will haunt us in the Dark.

HONNYMAN.

It's no more Murder than to crack a Louse, That is, if you've the Wit to keep it private.

And as to Haunting, Indians have no Ghosts, But as they live like Beasts, like Beasts they die.

I've kill'd a Dozen in this self-same Way, And never yet was troubled with their Spirits.

ORSBOURN.

Then I'm content; my Scruples are remov'd.

And what I've done, my Conscience justifies.

But we must have these Guns and Hatchets alter'd, Or they'll detect th' Affair, and hang us both.

HONNYMAN.

That's quickly done--Let us with Speed return, And think no more of being hang'd or haunted; But turn our Fur to Gold, our Gold to Wine, Thus gaily spend what we've so slily won, And bless the first Inventor of a Gun. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III. _An English Fort._

_Enter Colonel c.o.c.k.u.m and Captain FRISK._

c.o.c.k.u.m.

What shall we do with these d.a.m.n'd bawling Indians?

They're swarming every Day with their Complaints Of Wrongs and Injuries, and G.o.d knows what-- I wish the Devil would take them to himself.

FRISK.

Your Honour's right to wish the Devil his Due.

I'd send the noisy h.e.l.lhounds packing hence, Nor spend a Moment in debating with them.

The more you give Attention to their Murmurs, The more they'll plague and haunt you every Day, Besides, their old King Ponteach grows d.a.m.n'd saucy, Talks of his Power, and threatens what he'll do.

Perdition to their faithless sooty Souls, I'd let 'em know at once to keep their Distance.

c.o.c.k.u.m.

Captain, You're right; their Insolence is such As beats my Patience; cursed Miscreants!

They are encroaching; fain would be familiar: I'll send their painted Heads to h.e.l.l with Thunder!

I swear I'll blow 'em hence with Cannon Ball, And give the Devil an Hundred for his Supper.

FRISK.

They're coming here; you see they scent your Track, And while you'll listen, they will ne'er be silent, But every Day improve in Insolence.

c.o.c.k.u.m.

I'll soon dispatch and storm them from my Presence.

_Enter PONTEACH, and other Indian CHIEFS._

PONTEACH.

Well, Mr. Colonel c.o.c.k.u.m, what d' they call you?

You give no Answer yet to my Complaint; Your Men give my Men always too much Rum, Then trade and cheat 'em. What! d' ye think this right?

c.o.c.k.u.m.

Tush! Silence! hold your noisy cursed Nonsense; I've heard enough of it; what is it to me?

PONTEACH.

What! you a Colonel, and not command your Men?

Let ev'ry one be a Rogue that has a Mind to 't.

c.o.c.k.u.m.

Why, curse your Men, I suppose they wanted Rum; They'll rarely be content, I know, without it.