When the _48th regiment_ was selected for the purpose of giving a local habitation to the Author's imaginary hero and his love, it was only because that number came first to hand. Nothing could be further from his ideas, than to make the slightest disrespectful allusion to that corps, which, as is well known, was and is one of the finest in the service. FOOTNOTE: [7] Vale of Avoca. THE MULETEER. Light on the mountain was fading away, Dimly 'twas closing the long summer's day; But light on the heart of the muleteer shone, Which brightened each step that his mule gallop'd on. For long had he follow'd the dreary campaign, Long sigh'd for the maid of his bosom again; And when from the valley her home met his view, His heart on before his mule rapidly flew. Silent was night—but more silent the cot— Ruin and waste was the village's lot: The foot of the Frenchman there heavily trod— The track was seen deep in the villager's blood. The Muleteer called—but no voice could he hear, He look'd for his love—but no woman was there; The flash of despair though his brain wildly flew; And he wept o'er the ruins of all that he knew. Wept not he long; for the flame of his woe Burnt every thought, but revenge on the foe; His mule wild he turn'd on the hills of Navarre, He girded his sword, and he flew to the war. There, loud—as he gave each invader his doom, He call'd on his love—on his country—his home; But the death-ball at last through his sad bosom sped, And the muleteer sunk with the slain of his blade.[8] This little ballad has its origin in the following pathetic story, which I heard from the only surviving relative of the unfortunate muleteer—his mother. It was in the town, or rather village of Ernani, on the high road from Tolosa to France, that the old widow beguiled a winter's night with the recital of it, at her poor but hospitable hearth, when I was on the march to Fontarabia, in the last of our peninsular campaigns. The poor woman supported herself by selling cider, butter, cheese, &c. to the passing armies of both French and English, and her house, as well as others, served as a quarter for the soldiers. She was one of the few who remained in the village; or rather who returned to it, after it was first sacked by the French; for she had lost all, and had nothing more to fear. About four years had elapsed since her son's death; and her grief had changed to a settled melancholy. Still the recital of her calamities drew tears from her.