It was quite evident from the hilarious revelry in the kitchen, that the company below had no sin of omission, as far as drinking went, to answer for. Indeed it was pretty apparent that they were set in for a regular carouse. The sergeant and his comrades prudently uniting mirth with business, had favoured the countrymen with their company, in the double hope of enjoying a potation, scot-free--and if luck were on their side, crimping a clod-hopper into the bargain. The antiquated fifer, on his “ear-piercing” instrument had executed “the Groves of Blarney,” with a variety of flourishes which elicited a thunder of applause. As to the commander, he was affability itself--spoke of his “feats of broil,” and recounted the numerous “battles, sieges, fortunes,” through which he had passed, with a vividness of description that made the very hair of the listeners stand on end. Nothing could be more glowing than the narrative, albeit, it was apocryphal entirely; for during his peaceful life, he, worthy man, had never witnessed a musket snapped in anger. At the request of a gentleman, whose solitary stripe announced him to he still on the lowest step of the ladder of preferment, the sergeant obliged the company with a rigmarole effusion which he was pleased to call a song; and it is only necessary to say, that the poetry and performance were worthy of each other. THE SERGEANT’S SONG. Now, brave boys, we’re bound for marchin’ Both to Portingale and Spain; Drums are batin’, colours flyin’-- And the divil a-back we’ll come again; So, Love, farewell! The colonel cries, “Boys are ye ready?” “We’re at your back, both firm and steady; Our pouches filt with balls and powther, And a clane firelock on each shouther.” Love, farewell! The mother cries, “Boys, do not wrong me; Ye wouldn’t take my daughter from me? If ye do, I will torment yees, And after death my ghost will haunt yees.” Love, farewell! Och, Judy, dear! ve’r young and tender-- When I’m away, ye’ll not surrender; But hould out like an ancient Roman, And I’ll make you an honest woman. Love, farewell! Och, Judy! should I die in glory, In the papers ye’ll read my awful story But I’m so bother’d by your charms, I’d rather far die in your arms. Och! Love, farewell!