And here's a last good-bye.
Shortly after the event I have recorded, I was examining the back of a house near the battle-field, to see if it corresponded with the front, when another Fire Zouave came along, and says he:
"It's my opine that you're sticking rather too thick to the rear of that house to be much punkins in a muss. Why don't you go to the front like a man?"
"My boy," says I, "this is the house of a predominant rebel, and I'm detailed to watch the back door."
With that the Zouave was taken with such a dreadful fit of coughing that he had to move on to get his breath, and I was left alone once more.
These Fire Zouaves, my boy, have a perversity about them not to be repressed. They were neck-and-neck with the rest of us in our stampede back to this city; and yet, my boy, they refuse to consider the United States of America worsted. Here is the version of
BULL RUN,
BY A FIRE ZOUAVE.
Oh, it's all very well for you fellers
That don't know a fire from the sun,