SONG.—Gravedigger. (Tune—“Black Joke.”)
O, long life to the sons of the pick-axe and spade,
For they hold up an ancient respectable trade;
With my dig, dig, pick-axe and spade
In the hist'ry of all early states 'twill be found,
That each half-naked nobleman dug his own ground:—
For antiquity, all trades to delving must give in,
Since by digging e'en Adam himself earn'd his living.
With my dig, dig, pick-axe and spade. Whilst the Gravedigger is singing this Verse, Hamlet and Horatio enter at a distance.

Hamlet.
This fellow digs and sings—unfeeling knave!
He's making merry of a trade that's grave.

Horatio.
Use, Sir, is second nature.

Hamlet.
On reflection,
I think I'd do the same were I a sexton.

Gravedigger (sings.)
The carpenter, shipwright, and mason may boast
Of the strength of their buildings—they're nut-shells at most.
With my dig, dig, &c.
But the sexton builds stronger than all put together,
For the houses that he makes, defy wind and weather;
And his tenants live snug, undisturb'd, and content,
For they're ne'er teaz'd for taxes, nor troubled for rent.
With my dig, dig, &c. [Gravedigger throws up several sculls.

Hamlet.
That scull might once have been a politician's;
And that a lawyer's, or a grave physician's.
Law, politics, and physic, now must grovel,
To bear a basting with a dirty shovel!—
That sexton seems a dev'lish dry old elf:
Horatio, shall we quiz him?

Horatio.
Please yourself.

Hamlet. (To Gravedigger)
Do'st know whose scull was this amongst the many?

Gravedigger.
What! can't you tell?

Hamlet.
Why, how the devil can I?

Gravedigger.
Of all good fellows sure he was the best, Sir!
This scull was Yorick's once, the late King's jester.

Hamlet.
Alas, poor Yorick! Sir, I knew him well—O!
He was indeed a jolly roaring fellow.
Horatio, he would get dead drunk,—and after
Could keep the table in a roar of laughter:
The first and last was he in ev'ry row:
O' th' wrong side of his mouth he's laughing now.
Now, when Miss Prim is seated at her glass,
With paints and washes to bedaub her face,
Tell her (to make her giggle at her toilette),
That paint her face inch thick, yet death will spoil it.

SONG.—Hamlet. (Tune—“Dorothy Dumps.”)
  When depriv'd of our breath,
  By that harlequin, Death,
His pantomime changes fast follow:
  First his magic displaces
  Eyes and nose from our faces,
And like this leaves them ghastly and hollow.
  'Tis to him the same thing,
  Whether beggar or king,—
'Midst his frolics all share the same fate;
  And certain it is,
  To a thing just like this,
He transform'd Alexander the Great.

  Next, without much delay,
  We're converted to clay;
But our next transformation's a lott'ry:
  Some are chang'd into cans,
  Some to pint-pots or pans—
Some to tea-pots from Wedgewood's fam'd pott'ry!
  By this rule may we trace
  Julius Cæsar's bold face,
'Till we find it i' th' form of a jug;
  And renown'd Alexander,
  The world's great commander,
A two-penny earthenware mug!! Bell tolls.

Hamlet.
But mum! here comes King, Queen, and all the court:
Let's stand aside awhile and see the sport. [Bell tolls. Enter Friar, King, Queen, Laertes, Marcellus, Bernardo, Gentlemen and Ladies, following the corpse of Ophelia.

Laertes.
Must there no more be done?

Friar.
Steady, lad, steady;
Don't talk of more—we've done too much already.

Laertes.
In with her then: (The coffin is put into the grave) and if, as gossips tell,
Old maids are destin'd to lead apes in hell,
May'st thou be one in my poor sister's train.

Hamlet.
What, my old sweetheart! We're bewitch'd, 'tis plain (h)8Q0023.

Queen. (Scattering flowers)
Instead of this, as I'm a living sinner,
I thought t' have had soon a good wedding dinner. [The Gravedigger about to throw the earth into the grave.

DUETT.—Laertes and Hamlet. (Tune—“Nancy Dawson.”) Laertes.
Sexton, throw aside your spade,
Don't be in so much haste, my blade;
Once more I'll buss the bonny maid,
  Before the grave you fill, Sir. [Leaps into the grave.
Now cover up the quick and dead,
And pile your dust upon my head,
'Till of this flat a mount you've made
  As high as Greenwich-hill, Sir.

Hamlet (advancing.)
Who's ranting in so fine a strain? Laertes.
Pray, who are you? Hamlet.
Hamlet the Dane. Laertes.
I'm glad I've caught you here again—
  Now dam'me but I'll choak thee. [Springs out of the grave, and catches Hamlet by the throat. Hamlet.
Let go my throat—don't squeeze so tight;
For tho' I'm not the first to fight,
I'll thump you to your heart's delight,—
  So you'd better not provoke me.
I'll fight for her, (so hold your mag),
Until my eye-lids cease to wag;
But if you only mean to brag,
  Come, tell me what you'll do, Sir.
Of paltry Greenwich-hill you speak,
But on me, I'll let them pile a heap,
That shall rival the Devil's A&wblank;e a-peak—
  I'll rant as well as you, Sir. [Exeunt Hamlet and Horatio.

Queen.
Alas, he's crack'd! Awhile he'll growl like Towzer (i)8Q0024:
Anon, he's patient as a hungry mouser (k)8Q0025.

King.
Good Gertrude, see your crazy son you make fast. [Exit Queen.
And now, Laertes—we'll go home to breakfast. [Exeunt King, Laertes, &c. &c.

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