_Colonel Diamond._ The Doctor has _Dunn_, I assure you. (_Although the Colonel's pun was evidently a poser—all laughed a little; but the Colonel himself, although he could not refrain from the deliverance of it, was certainly sorry for having been so witty, and a short silence intervened._) _Major Flowers._ Oh, by the by, Colonel, I have received a letter from Lady Fanny, and she tells me that it is rumoured—a—that we are to be sent to Ireland. _All the Mess._ To Ireland! _Capt. Tache._ I'll exchange, upon my honour. _Lieut. Golding._ I'll resign. _Lieut. Lavender._ We shall be starved, as I live. _Capt. Bright._ We shall be murdered. _Cornet Small_ (_in a piping voice_). Really, if I had the slightest anticipation that the regiment should have been ordered on _foreign_ service _at all_, I would have joined the _Blues_. A man of _fortune_ has no business in Ireland. _Col. Diamond._ If this news of Lady Fanny's should turn out to be true, I must go to town immediately, and insist upon a change in the arrangement; the Duke must _not_ be allowed to have his way in this: so, gentlemen, make yourselves easy on the subject. _I am determined we shall not go._ [_All the Mess are delighted, and a burst of applause follows the concluding word of the Colonel's assurance._] _Dr. Scott._ Dinna fash aboot ganging to Ireland, gentlemen; it's no sae bad a spot as you think. _Capt. Ploomer._ Really, Doctor, you Scotchmen have strange notions of comfort,—totally at variance with the _esprit de corps_ which distinguishes the _nonpareils_. Those _boundary_ countries, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, may do very well for the infantry and the heavy dragoons, and perhaps as an occasional quarter for the _lights_; but we, who are the _influential_ portion of the military ton, should never leave England, except, indeed, for such an affair as Waterloo. _Dr. Scott._ My conscience! but I think, Captain, such “_affairs_” as Waterloo are more suitable to the _heavy dragoons_ than to the _Hussars_: an' I have na doubt but the gallant Marquis o' Anglesea wud tell ye the same thing. _Capt. Ploomer._ 'Pon my honour, I don't know; we did very well, too; vastly well—a—but let us confine ourselves to Ireland, Doctor. _Col. Diamond._ Yes, Doctor, to Ireland, if you please. _Dr. Scott._ Weel, what objection have ye to that quarter? _Capt. Ploomer._ Objection! my dear Sir! they shake hands with their friends, and absolutely eat breakfasts. _Cornet Canary._ Oh, shocking! _Cornet Fairfax._ Abominable! _Capt. Tache._ The Doctor is not to blame, considering the view he takes of the matter. Ireland may be a very good quarter; but the Commander-in-Chief ought to draw a line between the _mere_ army and the _cream_ of the cavalry. _All the Mess._ Certainly—undoubtedly—decidedly.