We fought till red shirts were as plenty As blackberries, strewing the grass, And then we fell back for a breathing, To let Sixty-nine's fellers pass. Perhaps Sixty-nine didn't peg them, And give them uncommon cheroots? Well--I've just got to say, if they didn't You fellers can smell of my boots! The Brooklyn Fourteenth was another, And those Minnesota chaps too; But the odds were too heavy against us, And but one thing was left us to do: We had to make tracks for our quarters, And finished it up pretty rough; But if any chap says that they licked us, I'd just like to polish him off! With the remembrance of the many heroic souls who sacrificed themselves for their country that day, I have not the heart, my boy, to continue the subject. I was routed at about five o'clock in the afternoon, and fell back on Washington, where I am now receiving my rations. I don't take the oath with any spirit since then; and a skeleton with nothing on but a havelock is all that is left of Yours, emaciatedly, ORPHEUS C. KERR. LETTER XI. GIVING AN EFFECT OF THE NEW BUGLE DRILL IN THE MACKEREL BRIGADE, AND MAKING SOME NOTE OF THE LATEST IMPROVEMENTS IN ARTILLERY, ETC. WASHINGTON, D.C., August --, 1861. The Mackerel Brigade, of which I have the honor to be a member, was about the worst demoralized of all the brigades that covered themselves with glory and perspiration at the skrimmage of Bull Run. In the first place, it never had much morals, and when it came to be demoralized, it hadn't any; so that ever since the disaster, the peasantry in the neighborhood of the camp have been in constant mourning for departed pullets; and one venerable rustic complains that the Mackerel pickets milk all his cows every night, and come to borrow his churn in the morning. When one of the colonels heard the venerable rustic make this accusation, he says to him: "Would you like to be revenged on the men who milk your animiles?" The venerable rustic took a chew of tobacco, and says he: "I wouldn't like anything better." The colonel looked at him sadly for a moment, and then remarked: "Aged stranger, you are already revenged. The men who milked your animiles are all from New York, where they had been accustomed to drink milk composed principally of Croton water. Upon drinking the pure article furnished by your gentle beastesses, they were all taken violently sick, and are now lying at the point of illness, expecting every moment to be their first." The venerable rustic was so affected by this intelligence, that he immediately went home in tears.