CHORUS.

(The lights go out, Luther fires an immense punch bowl.)

Luther is a brave man,
Tire la laire,
Tire lan la.
'Tis to-morrow that we poison him,
Tire lan laire,
Tire lan la.
His cellar is a goodly spot,
Tire lan laire.
'Tis to-morrow we will make it hot,
Tire lan laire,
Tire lan la.


NICKLAUSSE.

Very good, indeed. At least we are pruned
With reason and practical sense!
Away with languorous hearts.


NATHANAEL.

Let's wager that Hoffmann's in love.


HOFFMANN.