ky; an' th' las' wurruds he was heard to utter was,
'Lay me down, boys, an' save th' flag.' An there was manny th' other
that had nawthin' to say but to call f'r a docthor; f'r 'tis on'y,
d'ye mind, th' heroes that has somethin' writ down on typewriter f'r
to sind to th' newspapers whin they move up. Th' other lads that dies
because they cudden't r-run away,--not because they wudden't,--they
dies on their backs, an' calls f'r th' docthor or th' priest. It
depinds where they're shot.

"But, annyhow, no wan iv thim lads come back to holler because he was
in th' war or to war again th' men that shot him. They wint to wurruk,
carryin' th' hod 'r shovellin' cindhers at th' rollin' mills. Some iv
thim took pinsions because they needed thim; but divvle th' wan iv
thim ye'll see paradin' up an' down Ar-rchey Road with a blue coat on,
wantin' to fight th' war over with Schwartzmeister's bar-tinder that
niver heerd iv but wan war, an' that th' rites iv sivinty-sivin. Sare
a wan. No, faith. They'd as lave decorate a confeatherate's grave as a
thrue pathrite's. All they want is a chanst to go out to th' cimitry;
an', faith, who doesn't enjoy that? No wan that's annything iv a
spoort.

"I know hundherds iv thim. Ye know Pat Doherty, th' little man that
lives over be Grove Sthreet. He inlisted three times, by dad, an' had
to stand on his toes three times to pass. He was that ager. Well, he
looks to weigh about wan hundherd an' twinty pounds; an' he weighs wan
fifty be raison iv him havin' enough lead to stock a plumber in his
stomach an' his legs. He showed himsilf wanst whin he was feelin' gay.
He looks like a sponge. But he ain't. He come in here Thursdah night
to take his dhrink in quite; an' says I, 'Did ye march to-day?'
'Faith, no,' he says, 'I can get hot enough runnin' a wheelbarrow
without makin' a monkey iv mesilf dancin' around th' sthreets behind a
band.' 'But didn't ye go out to decorate th' graves?' says I. 'I
hadn't th' price,' says he, 'Th' women wint out with a gyranium to put
over Sarsfield, the first born,' he says.

"Just thin Morgan O'Toole come in, an' laned over th' ba-ar. He's been
a dillygate to ivry town convention iv th' Raypublicans since I dinnaw
whin. 'Well,' says he, 'I see they're pilin' it on,' he says. 'On th'
dead?' says I, be way iv a joke. 'No,' he says; 'but did ye see
they're puttin' up a monnymint over th' rebils out here be Oakwoods?'
he says. 'By gar,' he says, ''tis a disgrace to th' mim'