_Capt. Killdragon._ Ay, ay, _neutralized_ it, indeed; that is, he added an alkali to his acid—such union, we know, produces _froth_—insipid—nay, disgusting froth. The fact is, the patching only made things worse; for the Duke was in _articulo mortis_, (as _you_ would say, Doctor,) when the cold-blooded and heartless declaimer apologized for his wanton brutality. Besides, he found that he disgusted even his _own_ partisans, and therefore feared the loss of his all—his popularity—his _brief_ popularity. _Major Mc Rocket._ By G—! yir raight, Killdragon; an' ye speak the feelings o' us a'. _Dr. Slaughtery._ I do not defend the act: it certainly was bad; but I think it arose from party violence. _Several Voices._ It admits of no excuse. _Col. Shell._ And the Doctor thinks so too; but he loves argument as dearly as he does his country, and only wishes now to draw _you_ out, Killdragon. _Dr. Slaughtery._ Thank you, Colonel; I _have_ drawn him out, and now I'll draw _in_ my horns. _All the Mess._ Bravo! bravo! _Capt. Ball._ Gentlemen, as we are on the subject of the Commander-in-Chief's death, I beg to mention that Mr. Steel, my worthy young _Sub_ here on my left, has written a song upon the occasion, and set it to music. You all know how he sings, and what do you say to hearing it? The band can accompany the song, for they have learnt the music of it. [_This announcement was received with enthusiasm, and Ensign Steel, although blushing under his honours and opposing “the motion,” was obliged to yield to the general request. The band having been ordered to accompany the song, now played a fine impressive symphony, and the Ensign sung with great effect the following_:— LAMENT OF THE CHIEF. I. Soldiers! the chief that you loved is gone To the tomb where his fathers sleep, Where the mighty rest,—but there is not one Like him in its holy keep. The dead where he lies wear diadems,— His crown is the soldier's love;— Not a thing of gold nor of costly gems, But a glory that's brought from above. II. Soldiers! the heart that was good and great, Is still, and its warmth is past; For you and your weal its first pulses beat— For you and your weal its last. In the midst of the forest of lofty pines Thus drops the parent stem, Thus a father whose hope in his children shines— All blessing, and blessed by them. III.