"And oh! if I get home again,
I swear I'll never leave her;
I hope the straw mattress will keep,
The pig won't have the fever!
For then, you know, I'll marry Kate,
And never think of others.
Hurrah, then, for the shamrock green,
And the Louisiana colors!"
It was nearly midnight before the men separated, repairing to their
tents. Their songs had charmed me, and made the long hours flit by like
birds. Where are you, brave singers, in this year '68? I know not--you
are all scattered. Your guns have ceased their thunder, your voices
sound no more. But I think you sometimes remember, as you muse, in
these dull years, those gay moonlight nights on the banks of the
Rowanty.
VIII.
"CHARGE! STUART! PAY OFF ASHBY'S SCORE!"
These memories are beguiling, and while they possess me, my drama does
not march.
But you have not been wearied, I hope, my dear reader, by this little
pencil sketch of the brave horse artillerymen. I found myself among
them; the moonlight shone; the voices sang; and I have paused to look
and listen again in memory.
These scenes, however, can not possess for you, the attraction they do
for me. To proceed with my narrative. I shall pass over my long
conversation with Will Davenant, whose bed I shared.
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