When the fresh breeze was fair as breeze can be,
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight,
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right,
The glorious main expanding o’er the bow,
The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight,
The dullest sailor wearing bravely now;
So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow.”
Shall I confess the truth? Never did an Irish cadet start for a scene of glory with less enthusiasm. In the retirement of my father’s house, every newspaper that arrived had brought with it fresh details of British victory,—and I longed, like another Norval, “to follow to the field” any honest gentleman who would hwe taken the trouble to show me the shortest way of getting a quietus—miscalled, the road to glory. A few months had, however, wrought a marvellous alteration; and but for the shame of the thing, I verily believe, I should hwe exchanged with some Captain Bailey of the day, and, without requiring “the difference,” forsworn the trade of arms, excepting the bloodless duty appertaining to country quarters.
Now I was regularly committed. The dullest spirit would catch a noble impulse. The fields of Roliça, Busaco, and Salamanca rose in glorious recollection; another feeling succeeded the regret attendant on a first separation from the object of a first love; and, before the second sun went down, I should hwe scorned an ignoble return, until “with war’s red honours on my crest,” I could hwe proudly claimed my affianced one. Speedily the true mercurial temperament of the Green island returned. I joined the reckless merriment of all around: we drank, and laughed, and sang. Nothing could be more prosperous than the voyage.
“On, on the vessel flies; the land is gone,