“The wight can tell A melancholy and a merry tale Of field, and fight, and chief, and lady gay.” “Come, you Jack Andrews, lave off your caperin’ about there, and give us that song the Captain made on the bowld Guerilla,” said private Mulligan to his comrade, who was taking a lesson from Lance-Corporal Brogan on the Ballycraggen[1] pushing-step, to set his blood into circulation; for he had been just relieved from a two hours’ stand upon the side of as bleak a mountain as ever sentry stood upon; where the keen winds of a cold frosty night had full play upon his patient and good-humoured countenance.…
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