See, see, red Battle raging, In wild and bloody strife; His burning thirst assuaging In the smoking tide of life! From the shower of balls our men give way— But the rank of steel appears: They charge!—Hurrah! Hurrah! for the day Is the British Bayoneteers! Then fill the glass, for the toast of toasts, &c. IV. The English arm is strong, boys, The Irish arm is tough, The Scotchman's blow, the French well know, Is struck by sterling stuff; And when, before the enemy, Their shining steel appears— Good by'e! Good by'e!—How they run! How they fly From the British Bayoneteers! Then fill the glass, for the toast of toasts, &c. Loud applause followed this song, for the wine had pretty freely circulated before it was sung. A deviled turkey was now brought in, the decanters were all replenished, and several jolly songs sung. It was a festival day; therefore did the young _subs_ leave off the everyday rule of quitting the mess-table after the “_second allowance_,” and indulged _ad libitum_. In short, a merrier set of fellows, from the Colonel to the Quarter-master, never broke up from a happy mess-table, than they, at half-past 12 o'clock, A. M. GERAGHTY'S KICK. “Send that to your next-door neighbour.” At the battle of Talavera, when the hill on the left of the British line had been retaken from the enemy, after the most obstinate and bloody fighting, the French continued to throw shells upon it with most destructive precision. One of those terrible instruments of death fell close to a party of grenadiers belonging to the 45th regiment, who were standing on the summit of the hill. The fusee was burning rapidly, and a panic struck upon the minds of the soldiers, for they could not move away from the shell on account of the compact manner in which the troops stood: it was nearly consumed—every rapidly succeeding spark from it promised to be the last—all expected instant death—when Tom Geraghty, a tall raw-boned Irishman, ran towards the shell, crying out, “By J——, I'll have a kick for it, if it was to be my last;” and with a determined push from his foot, sent the load of death whirling off the height. It fell amongst a close column of men below, while Geraghty, leaning over the verge from whence it fell, with the most vehement and good-natured energy, bawled out “Mind your heads, boys, mind your heads!” Horror!—the shell burst!—it was over in a moment. At least twenty men were shattered to pieces by the explosion!