And 't would dance on their bits of gilt The opinion he had and consait of the

And it's there where I'm bothered entirely to think how he got the idee To go soldierin' off to the ends of the earth wid no comrade but me. Howanever, he went off suddint, afore we knew right what was on;

And I thought to meself the ould place

Were come nearer than near, and gone further than far, along wid that curlew's call.

Ah, but Norah, you 're perished an' thrimblin' wid could sittin' here in the win';

'ud be quare wid Jack Connolly Did you bring ne'er a wrap to rowl round you, machree, now the night 's closin’ in ?

gone, So I up and I down to the barracks below, an' the shillin' I tuk

That's the way it fell out, and belike 't was himself had the best of the luck.

And continted and aisy he went, wanst he
saw he'd made shift to conthrive
That the message he had in his mind 'ud
go safe. For sez I: "Man alive,
I'll be tellin' your people at home the first
chance I can git, good or bad,
How thimselves, and the ould place you
quit, was the last thought that ever
you had ;

And I'll bid thim be thinkin' of you,
whin they hear the bird cry on our
bog.
Your poor mother, an' father, an' the
childher, an' their little ould rogue
of a dog,

Ne'er a wan you 're forgettin'," sez I; and
bedad any fool might ha' known,

For the manin' he meant wid his call was
as clear as a bugle blown.
And our rifles wint crack be the gateway,
and now and again wid a plop

Come a bullet dhruv deep in the sand-
't was the divil dhrill-sowin' his
crop

And a priest legged it up to the top of the
tower, and stood risin' a yell
For the rest to be sayin' their prayers, like
as if 't was our angely bell.
But it's little Jack heeded; for sure his
own folk, and th' ould counthry, and
all

For there's mists curlin' white on the pools, and the air gets an edge whin they lift.

Ay, the moon's up, just on'y a breath 'gin
the blue, where the cloud comes
adrift,

Sthreelin' by like a haystack on fire, wid
the flame blowin' off be the way
In bright bundles and wisps, as if some

wan 'ud harvest the light of the day. 'Tis n't that fashion dark falls, out there in the aist. Wanst the sun goes on lave,

Ne'er a thrace of a glame bides to show where he passed, like the foam of

a wave;

He'll be blazin' wan minit, and thin 't is the
same as if somebody shut

A black door on the blink of a hearth, or
kicked over a lamp wid his fut.
So the rest of us rode thro' a night blindin'
dark, till we'd half the plain
crossed,

And the moon riz ice-clear, wid a shine
lyin' thick on the grass as hoar-
frost

You could gather up. And, troth, if our tongues had froze stiff, 't is as much we'd ha' said,

Sure

Wid Jack Connolly's baste saddle-empty,
and jerkin' the reins as I led.
poor Jack had a dale of good-nature;
he'd fooled the ould mare all he
could,

And the crathur went slow-fut and heavy;
you might think that she understood.