At the close of 1812, after a weary and disastrous retreat from Madrid, we were again quartered in Portugal; here we remained for five months, during which the most active and energetic preparations were made for the ensuing campaign, which commenced in May, 1813. A series of successes almost unexampled enabled us to winter in France, and the battle of Toulouse in April, 1814, concluded a war which had drained the country of men and treasure. With feelings which none can know but those who have toiled through fields of death, we received the order to embark for Britain, and it was with little regret that we lost sight of the fair shores of France, ‘with its bright beaming summers exhaling perfume.’ Far dearer to our imaginations were the ‘humble broom bowers’ of our native land, ‘where the blue bell and gowan lurks lowly unseen.’ On the voyage homeward, hope smiled triumphant, dreams of joy and bliss took the place of disappointment and despair. Yet often in sleep did my imagination return to those fields of strife and rapine that we had left; the agony of disappointed hope again shed its chilling mildew on my soul, and I awoke expecting to hear the sound of the bugle or the roar of artillery; but the picture was reversed—‘sorrow did not now return with the dawning of morn.’ Our voyage homeward was short and pleasant. Ireland was our destination, and having anchored in the Cove of Cork, we proceeded to disembark in lighters. ‘You are welcome to old Ireland,’ exclaimed my comrade Dennis, holding out his hand to me as I stepped from the boat out of which he had sprung an instant before, ‘welcome to the land of potatoes and buttermilk. Didn’t I tell you that we would live to see this day? May I never die if this isn’t the happiest, minute of my life! my heart’s so light that I think I could jump over the moon. Come along, my gay fellow, we have been long together, “and in spite of wind and weather we will moisten well our clay”—I mean by and by, when we get to our billets. Did you ever drink any potheen, Joseph? Och! there never was drink like it in the universe, for if you wish to be in any mood at all, it’ll do the job for ye. If you want to fight, potheen will make you face the ould boy himself; if you have any notion of making love, with a bumper or two of Inishone you might malvader the heart of Diana; and if crying is your game, it will make your heart as soft as prapeen. Go to the first wake you can in this country, and you’ll see what wonders it works; it will do your heart good to see how it makes the tears trickle down their cheeks, and sets them a counting their pedigree back to the time when Adam was a little boy; ay, indeed, (but I must whisper it,) I have seen it make a voteen of many an old woman that said her Paternave dry enough at any other time. Och, pure potheen’s the liquor for me,—it beats brandy, rum, and gin, out of all razon.’