“Faith, but your honour’s mighty condescending,” he exclaimed, “to listen to the chathering of ould Pat. Fifty years have marched off under General Time since I first shouldered the firelock, and now I am daily expecting the route (for my billet is nearly expired) to assemble for the grand review before the sarcher of all hearts. Och, many’s the time and oft I’ve wished for some kind friend that I might spake a word to and unburthen my sinful spirit; for when I’ve stood sentry all alone by myself in the dark nights in Ameriky and Spain, and in dare little Ireland too, I’ve thought, ‘Arrah Paddy, but you are a great big blaggard, so you are, for running away from your ould mother that’s dead and gone, without so much as seeing her dacently laid under the turf. If she had been alive, it would have broke her heart, so it would, to think how her own beautiful Paddy should desart her in time of need, and not stop to see her waked.’ But ’twas the dthrink, your honour, ’twas the murthering dthrink, and bad manners to Sarjent Linstock for that same; he laughed at poor Pat, and marched us off without bate of drum, saying that ‘She would never wake again;’ for I must be after telling you that there was a recruiting party came down to the fair, so they picked me out as the most likely lad on the sod; and indeed your honour, there wasn’t many in those days, though I say it meself, that dared tread upon my greatcoat, or call my shtick a rascal. But, as I said before, it was the dthrink, and then they chated me by slipping the king’s countenance into my fob when I knew nothing about it at all, at all; but they swore I had ’listed willingly, and had taken the picture meself. Och, by my conscience, didn’t I get into a thundering rage, sure!--not that I minded sarving his Majesty, heaven bless the heart of his soul, that’s in t’other world! but I thought it was not trateing me handsome, your honour, to trap me into it. But I found it was of no use to complain; so I went to bid poor mother good bye, and she’d just breath enough left to tell me not to disgrace the country that gave me birth. ‘Arrah Paddy, (says she,) my own dare Paddy, that I loved so tinderly, and used to get the but--but--but-buthermilk and pra-pratees for!’ Oh, sir, ’tis a big shame to see a sodger cry; but when I think of the dare soul and the buthermilk, how can I help it? ‘Niver dishonour your cloth, Paddy, (says she,) nor the king you sarve, nor the father that begot you. Fight in a just cause, and when the vanquished cry for quarter, unlock the heart and spare the hand. Protect the innocent, and do your duty like a man.’