man loves held daintily between his fingers. He appeared to
be giving his directions to some soldiers of the troop, who were busily
cleaning his horses and accoutrements for him.

[Illustration: MR. FREE PIPES WHILE HIS FRIENDS PIPE-CLAY.]

"That's it, Jim! Rub 'em down along the hocks; he won't kick; it's only
play. Scrub away, honey; that's the devil's own carbine to get clean."

"Well, I say, Mr. Free, are you going to give us that ere song?"

"Yes. I'll be danged if I burnish your sabre, if you don't sing."

"Tear an' ages! ain't I composing it? Av I was Tommy Moore, I couldn't be
quicker."

"Well, come along, my hearty; let's hear it."

"Oh, murther!" said Mike, draining the pot to its last few drops, which he
poured pathetically upon the grass before him; and then having emptied the
ashes from his pipe, he heaved a deep sigh, as though to say life had no
pleasures in store for him. A brief pause followed, after which, to the
evident delight of his expectant audience, he began the following song, to
the popular air of "Paddy O'Carroll":--

BAD LUCK TO THIS MARCHING.

Air,--_Paddy O'Carroll_.

Bad luck to this marching,
Pipe-claying, and starching,
How neat one must be to be killed by the French,
I'm sick of parading,
Through wet and cowld wading,
Or standing all night to be shot in a trench.
To the tune of a fife
They dispose of your life,
You surrender your soul to some illigant lilt;
Now, I like Garryowen,
When I hear it at home,
But it's not half so sweet when you're going to be kilt.

Then, though up late and early,
Our pay comes so rarely,
The devil a farthing we've ever to spare;
They say some disaster
Befell the paymaster;
On my conscience, I think that the money's not there.
And just think what a blunder,
They won't let us plunder,
While the convents invite us to rob them, 'tis clear;
Though there isn't a village,
But cries, "Come and pillage,"
Yet we leave all the mutton behind for Mounseer.

Like a sailor that's nigh land,
I long for that island
Where even the kisses we steal if we please;
Where it is no disgrace
If you don't wash your face,
And you've nothing to do but to stand at your ease.
With no sergeant t'abuse us,
We fight to amuse us;
Sure, it's better bate Christians than kick a baboon.
How I'd dance like a fairy
To see o