_Captain_. Then chance to me at least has been most kind;
Come, let me lead you where a drink you'll find.

[_They enter dug-out and are seen relieving their thirst_.

_Chorus_.
Beyond the distant bower,
Where skirted men abide
And in an uncouth language
Their skirted children chide;
Beyond the land of sunshine,
Where never skies are blue,
There lives a silent people
Who know a thing or two.
All is not gold that glitters,
And _sirops_ are rather sad;
All is not Bass that's "bitters,"
And Gallic beer is bad;
But out of the misty regions
Where loom the mountains tall
There comes the drink of princes--
Whisky, the best of all.

_Staff O_. This is my seventh drink, and yet, alas!
The Colonel comes not.

_Captain_. Fill another glass.

_Staff O_. I will [_he does_]. The bottle's finished, I'm afraid.