LOVE, FAREWELL.
‘Now, brave boys, we’re bound for marchin’,
Both to Portingale and Spain;
Drums are batin’, colours flyin’,
And the divil a back we’ll come agin.
So, love, farewell!
‘Eighty-eighty and Inniskillen,
Boys that’s able, boys that’s willin’,
Faugh-a-ballagh and County Down,
Stand by the Harp, and stand by the Crown.
So, love, farewell!
‘The colonel cries, “Boys, are yez ready?”
“We’re at your back, sir, firm and steady,
Our pouches filled with ball and pouther,
And a firelock sloped on every shoulther.”
So, love, farewell!
‘Och, Judy dear, ye’re young and tender,
When I’m away ye’ll not surrender,
But hould out like an ancient Roman,
And I’ll make you—an honest woman.
So, love, farewell!
‘Och, Judy, should I die in glory,
In the papers ye’ll read my awful story;
But I’m so bothered with yer charms,
I’d rather die within your arms.
So, love, farewell!’
I must give another specimen, which, if not very well spelt, is otherwise a proof of the loyalty of a gallant soldier, who afterwards fell at Sebastopol. I copy the whole as given to me on board the Niagara.
‘A soldier that is bound for this late war, and who goes with the most gratified assurance of coming home again with the head of the Disturber of Europe; or, dying like a soldier in the field, and with the heart of a real true subject, he says to his comrades:—