"So, so, old boy," answered the Captain, who presided at the head of a finely polished oak table, at the same time filling a bumper, and placing a black, little pipe, silver-mounted, on the board--"so, so; the Towers were not as full as usual, but we had some devilish good days. Arranmore was there, and by G--, he drinks like a fish--how did you get on?" "Famously! the Regent supped with us that night; a rare old buck is he." "Zounds, and that's true; but what the deuce has become of L'Estrange? I miss his face, by Jove!" "A ticklish question that, and hard to answer--Lord knows what has come over him; he is quite changed of late--no more the jolly fellow he was--he sits moping and silent in his rooms--I fancy Dame Venus is at the bottom of it." "Right, Major, and well guessed too," said young Pringle, a lieutenant, "some girl he was soft on has given him the slip, and the poor devil has taken it sadly to heart." "Egad, and I know who she is," replied the Captain, "and a devilish fine girl she is too--but I wouldn't give a snap for his chances." "Who? who?" broke in several at once. "Ask the foul fiend; you don't catch me blabbing," was the laconic reply. Knowing the Captain's moods, the conversation was immediately altered, and Major Forster proposed a song. "Come, Pringle, let us have the song you sung us last night again. De Vere has never heard it;--first your health, De Vere." "With pleasure," said the Captain, emptying his glass. "Now then, come along, old fellow,--out with your song!" Lieutenant Pringle standing up, and laying aside his cigar, then commenced the following song, in a rich tenor voice:-- SONG. I live a life of pleasure, I hate the man that staid is; I think earth owns no treasure So charming as the ladies! For them I would endure all The purgatory of Hades, And think I did secure all If I secured the ladies! Wine--ladies bright--and laughter Let my young years be spent in, And tedious old age after Will bring time to repent in! The earth owns many a pleasure, But all together weighed is A trifle beyond measure, Compared with you, sweet ladies! The man that suns in beauty His heart, right well repaid is; And every Briton's duty Is this, to love the ladies! Our soldiers, and our seamen, They dearly love the lasses, In battle they can be men, In love they can be asses! I live a life of pleasure, I hate the man that staid is! Fill up a sparkling measure, And drain it to the ladies! Here, seated at "The Dragon," Oft may we meet to give it, And to _her_ drain the flagon Who most our heart doth rivet! "Bravo, Pringle, bravo--what do you think of it, De Vere?" "A merry song, though somewhat lengthy, Forster. Never mind, Pringle, you did your best, and, egad, sang it capitally."