iron, will ye?—no, the one in the far fire, it's black, ye will see.—Ah! you've the thing now; look if it's not as red as a cherry."
The beverage was heated, and Richard took that kind of draught which men are apt to indulge in, who think that they have just executed a clever thing, especially when they like the liquor.
"Oh! you have a hand, Betty, that was formed to mix flip," cried Richard, when he paused for breath. "The very iron has a flavour in it. Here, John; drink, man, drink. I and you and Dr. Todd, have done a good thing with the shoulder of that lad, this very night. 'Duke, I made a song while you were gone; one day when I had nothing to do; so I'll sing you a verse or two, though I haven't really determined on the tune yet.
What is life but a scene of care,
Where each one must toil in his way?
Then let us be jolly, and prove that we are
A set of good fellows, who seem very rare,
And can laugh and sing all the day.
Then let us be jolly,
And cast away folly
For grief turns a black head to gray.
There, 'duke, what do you think of that? There is another verse of it, all but the last line. I haven't got a rhyme for the last line yet.—Well, old John, what do you think of the music? as good as one of your war-songs, ha!"
"Good," said Mohegan, who had been sharing too deeply in the potations of the landlady, besides paying a proper respect to the passing mugs of the Major and Marmaduke.
"Pravo! pravo! Richart," cried the Major, whose black eyes were beginning to swim in moisture; pravissimo! it is a goot song; but Natty Pumppo hast a petter. Letter-stockint, vilt sing?
