“Why,” said Jack, “the song of ‘The Guerilla’ is a very sweet thing, when sung by two voices; but without two it is not quite so good. Corporal Callaghan knows it well, and has often sung it with me; so as soon as he returns from relieving the sentries, I’ll sing the song with him, if you can persuade him to it. He knows the air better than I do, for he learnt it from the Guerillas themselves when there was a troop of them at Tolosa, and I learnt it from him; but if you have no objection, lads, I’ll sing a song which the Captain wrote to a fine bold and romantic French air, which I have heard the French soldiers singing many a night, close to my own post.”
Of course, the proposal was received unanimously; and when silence was perfectly restored, (for all spoke on the subject at once,) Jack Andrews sang the following song, first having taken the precaution of shutting the door, lest he might happen to be heard outside although there was very little danger of being surprised by any of the officers in his melodious dereliction from strict military practice.
THE SENTINEL.
When o’er the camp the midnight moonlight beams,
And soldiers’ eyes are seal’d in happy slumber,
The wakeful sentinel his watch proclaims,
And silence sweetly swells the echoing number:
Oh! then to Heaven his eyes he turns,
And murmurs with a glowing sigh,
“Angels bright that dwell above,
Tell my country, tell my love,
For them—for them I watch, for them I’ll die!”
And, as the foe’s night-fires before him play,
His bosom swells with flames still stronger burning;
He gazes on them—wishes for the day,
With glory and the fight once more returning!
Oh! then to Heaven his eyes he turns,
And murmurs with a glowing sigh,
“Angels bright that dwell above,
Tell my country, tell my love,
For them—for them I’ll fight, for them I’ll die!”
And should he, in the battle’s raging heat,
With valiant heart and arm the foe confounding;
Oh! should the hero then his death-wound meet,
And Victory his glorious knell be sounding,
Again to Heaven his eyes he turns,
And murmurs with his life’s last sigh,
“Angels bright that dwell above,
Tell my country, tell my love,
For them—for them I fought, for them I die!”
This, sung in admirable style by the manly voice of Jack Andrews, had a powerful effect upon the listeners, for the air was of a romantically martial character, composed during the best days of Napoleon’s glory, when chivalric enthusiasm infused itself into every shade of French imagination. There was not a man of the guard who had not served in the Peninsula during the brightest period of England’s military grandeur, when she stood opposed to Napoleon’s greatest heroes; and from a recollection of the scenes of that time, awakened by the song, there arose a feeling in every breast around the humble hearth of Ballycraggen Guard-house, which commanders might have envied, and philosophers admired. It brought all back to the romance of war; it placed them in situations familiar to their fancy; it touched the most delightful chord of the soldier’s heart, and every tongue became eloquent upon the source of its sensations. There is no sign in Nature’s mnemonics like music: it is a talisman of power. Moore has beautifully expressed this in poetry, but not so effectually as the following lines, attributed to the unfortunate Ensign Dermody.
To him whose heart is dark with shades of care,
How sweet’s the melody it loved to hear
In days gone by! Yet bitter is the strain:
Oh! ’tis a mingling of delight with pain;
For, though the hand of Time well-nigh efface
Each blur and furrow—each deforming trace,
Which stern Adversity’s harsh hand design’d
To spoil the lively landscape of the mind,
Some passing sound, some melancholy lay,
The favour’d pleasure of some former day,
Falls on his soul; and, as the listener hears,
Forth comes the magic stream of memory’s tears,
Which, dropping on the picture, bright again
Enlivens alike each beauty and each stain,
Casting a varnish of so mix’d a dye
That (by its gloss) ’twill please yet pain the eye!
Bob the sergeant spoke more than any one else on the subject of the song;—“That’s a ’nation good thing, Jack,” said he; “it puts me in mind of many a one of my night-guards when I was a private. D—me but it made me think I was on the side of a hill on the advanced-posts, stuck behind a tree, or the corner of a rock, watching the enemy in the moonshine of a fine summer’s night, just as I was immediately before the first battle Sir Arthur ever fought in Portugal. I think I’m there now: it was at Roliça. I was on sentry that night, on a hill, close to the enemy. It was as fine and as calm a night as ever was seen. The French were posted thick upon the heights in front of us—infernal steep and craggy precipices, where it was almost impossible to come at them. There was I about three hundred yards in front of them. On this advanced-post I was the sentry, and was just leaning against an old windmill, looking out at the French vidette, who was stuck on horseback, like the statue at Charing Cross, right out upon a high rock, at the top of a hill. The moon was rising behind him, and I could see the figure of the fellow and his horse just like one of those black shadows they cut out in card. The whole country round was one of the most beautiful pictures in the world. Down under my eyes was a little wood of lightish-coloured trees, (cork, I believe,) a small stream at the end of it: all along, to the distance of about two miles, I could see different old convents, and houses beset with orange and olive-trees; and the moonlight threw such a beautiful colouring over them that I could not help feeling melancholy.—You may smile, lads, but I was a young man then, and only a few days in a foreign country: I could almost smell the sea-air; for we were only three miles from the beach, along which we had been so lately sailing: I had not been many weeks away from a comfortable home—father, mother, sweetheart and all: I was then standing between two great armies, ready to start upon each other: and I did not know but the next day would see my first fight and my last hour. I’ll leave it to any man here, who ever was in any thing like such a situation, to say, whether it is not calculated to make an impression on the feelings.”
“Oh, by my sowl! and that it is, sargeant,” replied private Mulligan; “particularly when you are not a long time at the work.”