As soon as our fires were lighted, the men, who had been under arms from three o’clock in the morning until eleven at night, and consequently had not tasted food for the whole of the day, began to fill their hungry maws from the luxuries of the French camp. Roast fowls, hams, mutton, &c. were in abundance, and at midnight the wine and brandy went round in horn tots which we generally carried about us. The men mostly lay stretched on the ground, their feet towards the fires, and elbows resting on their knapsacks; as soon as the grog began to rouse up their spirits from the effects of the day’s fatigue, each one commenced inquiries about their absent comrades, for Riflemen in action being always extended, seldom know who falls until the affray is over. “Blood an ounds,” said Dan Kelly, bouncing up from his reclining posture; “don’t drink all the wine, boys, until we hear something about our absent messmates. Does any of you know where Jack Connor is?” “He was shot through the body, when we took the first gun in the little village near the main road,” was the reply. “Where is Will John,” asked Bob Roberts, with a sudden glance of suspense. “The ball passed through his head,” said another, “I saw poor Will fall.” “Musha, boys! is there any hope of poor Jemmy Copely getting over his wounds?” said Tom Tracy, earnestly, lifting his head from his knapsack. “Poor Copely!” replied another; “both his legs were knocked off by a round shot.” Tracy laid his head on his kit again, and was silent. Here each man gave a short account of his fallen comrade. “Why, by Jasus!” exclaimed Tracy, who had been eagerly listening all the while, “by Jasus, they have kilt half our mess. But never mind, boys, fill a tot, fill a tot, and may I be d——d but here’s luck:” he placed the wine to his mouth, but took it away untasted, and laid it on the ground. “Poor Jemmy Copely! poor Jemmy! they had drilled him well with balls before, damn them, now they have finished him. The best comrade I ever had, or ever will have.” The last part of the sentence was uttered in a broken accent as he wiped his eye, then commenced filling a wooden pipe, the bowl made from a tailor’s thimble, his head stooping all the while as if to hide the large drops that unconsciously rolled over his nose; a short pause took place among the group until Tracy, recovering himself a little, took up the tot of wine and drank it off, and, jumping up at the same moment, with a loud voice, he called out to all, “Hear me, boys, hear me! hear what I am going to say.” A deep silence followed. He knelt on his knapsack, his hands squeezed together in the attitude of prayer. “May the Lord God,” ejaculated Tracy, “grant that those fellows in yonder camp remain where they are until we have the pleasure of thrashing them for the gap they have this day made in our mess.”