And now, my boy, the march for Manassas commenced, being timed by the soft music of the band. This band, my boy, is _sui generis_. Its chief artist is an ardent admirer of Rossini, who performs with great accuracy upon a night-key pressed closely against the lower lip, the strains being much like those emitted by a cart-wheel in want of grease. Then comes a gifted musican from Germany, whose instrument is a fine-tooth comb wrapped in paper, and blown upon through its vibratory covering. The remainder of the band is composed chiefly of drums, though the second-base achieves some fine effects with a superannuated accordeon. Onward moved the magnificent pageant toward the plains of Manassas, the Anatomical Cavalry being in advance, and the Mackerel Brigade following closely after. Arriving on the noted battle-field, we found nothing but a scene of desolation; the rebels gone; the masked batteries gone; and nothing left but a solitary daughter of the sunny South, who cursed us for invading the peaceful homes of Virginia, and then tried to sell us stale milk at six shillings a quart. When Captain Villiam Brown, surveyed this spectacle, my boy, his brows knit with portentous anger, and says he: "So much for wasting so much time. Ah!" says Villiam, clutching convulsively at his canteen, "we have met the enemy, and they are hours--ahead of us." The only thing noticeable we found, my boy, upon searching the late stamping ground of the Southern Confederacy, was a beautiful "romaunt," evidently written by an oppressed Southern Union man, who had gone from bad to verse, and descriptive of THE SOUTHERN VOLUNTEER'S FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. Fresh from snuff-dipping to his arms she went, And he, a quid removing from his mouth, Pressed her in anguish to his manly breast And spat twice, longingly, toward the South. "Zara," he said, and hiccup'd as he spoke, "Indeed I find it most (hic) 'stremely hard To leave my wife, my niggers, and my debts, And march to glory with the 'Davis Guard;' "But all to arms the South has called her sons, And while there's something Southern hands can steal, You can't (hic) 'spect me to stay here at home With heartless duns for ever at my heel. "To-night a hen-coop falls; and in a week We'll take the Yankee capital, I think; But should it prove (hic) 'pedient not to do't, Why, then, we'll take--in short, we'll take a drink. "I reckon I may perish in the strife-- Some bullet in the back might lay me low-- And as my business needs attendin' to, I'll give you some directions ere I go. "That cotton-gin I haven't paid for yet-- The Yankee trusted for it, dear, you know, And it's a most (hic) 'stremely doubtful thing, Whether it's ever used again, or no.