Thus spoke the Sergeant, and his worthy private, Mulligan: the latter, by way of punishment, was ordered to an extra guard, for being a little out of rule, as above-mentioned; but his punishment was given him by an Officer who had fought and bled with him, and who regarded him with kindly feelings. Pat's delinquency was reported to the Captain by the Orderly Officer, and he could do no less. However, there was not a better nor a more respected man in the corps, than Patrick Mulligan, of the grenadier company. Like many other good soldiers, he was fond of society and the all-powerful potyeen. So when the Orderly Officer was going round at nine o'clock, he put the light under a wooden pale, and when all was, as he thought, safe, he returned to the convivial glass with his comrades; but the officer was one of those pipe-clay martinets, just joined from the half-pay of a militia regiment, and although he had never seen in his life as much actual service as poor Pat had done in one month of his existence, (and perhaps knew much less in reality about the duties of a soldier,) he stole back to the barracks, and surprised the party of carousing Peninsulars. His report was made, and the men were punished. The practice of keeping lights in the barrack rooms, after the proper hour for extinguishing them, cannot be justified; but there are infractions of general rules in the army, which, if not to be tolerated, should not be sought after with too scrutinizing an eye. A good officer knows when to pry and when to keep his eyes shut; but that was not the case with Pat Mulligan's Orderly Officer. “Weel Jock,” said the Corporal, “ye maun gi' us a lilt—you or the Corporal.” “With all my heart,” replied Jack Andrews, “if Corporal O'Callaghan is willing to join in with his second.” “Faith! I've no objection in the world to conthribute to the harmony of the guard, if my voice doesn't frighten you, lads.” “Neever mind, Corporal, your voice is na so bad as the Highland pipes, nor yet so loud. But before ya begin, here tak' a——.” It is impossible to say what the Sergeant offered the Corporal; but it has been since seriously hinted at by Pat Mulligan, and some others. Whatever it was, I have no business to blab—even if I thought it nothing less than pure Inishowen: however, when compliments had passed, and all the men were comfortably seated round the fire, the Corporal and Jack Andrews sung the following verses to a beautiful Biscayan air:— THE FRIAR OF ST. SEBASTIAN. Deep the matin-bell toll'd from Benedict's tower, Long the Friar alone had sighed for the hour, When all were at rest— All but the gentlest lady of Spain Who loved him the best. In secret he gave her his passion again, Unholy, unblest: His lamp of religion was clouded by love, Too thick and too dark to be seen from above!