"Then mourn not for friends that are eaten,
A drum-stick for care and regret!
Enough that, the future to sweeten,
Our lives are not forfeited yet!
"Then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys,
No longer we've reason to fear;
Who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys,
Let's trust to the chance of the year!"
Somewhat curious, if true, is an anecdote which is declared to be authentic, and which we find among the disjecta membra of our ollapodrida:
Lieutenant Montgomery had seen much military service. The wars, however, were over; and he had nothing in the world to do but to lounge about, as best he could, on his half-pay. One day he was "taking his ease in his inn," when he observed a stranger, who was evidently a foreigner, gazing intently at him. The lieutenant appeared not to notice him, but shifted his position. After a short time the stranger shifted his position also, and still stared with unblemished, unabated gaze.
This was too much for Montgomery. He rose, and approaching his scrutinizing intruder, said:
"Do you know me, sir?"
"I think I do," answered the foreigner. (He was a Frenchman.)
"Have we ever met before?" continued Montgomery.
"I will not swear for it; but if we have—and I am almost sure we have," said the stranger, "you have a sabre-cut, a deep one, on your right wrist."