At half-past five they marched from Ballycraggen guard-house to the main street in the little town, where the regiment was already forming, and the baggage packed on fifteen or twenty cars—all pressed the day before for this service. The route had arrived very unexpectedly, owing to the invasion of Portugal by the rebel chief, the Marquis de Chaves, and the consequent energy and decision of Mr. Canning in sending out assistance to that country; on this account no regiment relieved that stationed at Ballycraggen, and the guard-house was now deserted; the old oak chair in which the sergeant of the guard usually sat, and the wooden forms, were removed—nothing remained to inform the accidental visitor of the cottage, that it once was a military occupation, but the names of sundry soldiers, and the description of their rank, delineated on the wall by a burnt stick.
Early as the hour was, the townspeople were all up, and waiting to see the regiment march off. The glass—the parting glass—of strong whisky was doing its duty briskly; the officers were bustling about; the soldiers wives sorrowful enough, mounted on the baggage, with their children—many of them were to be left behind the regiment on embarkation, and none of them knew which. Little groups were here and there detached from the ground on which the regiment was to form, generally composed of soldiers and a few of the people with whom they had been on habits of intimacy. Several couples of lovers stood interestingly conversing, or in melancholy silence: among these was a young soldier and a remarkably pretty girl—she was weeping, while he held her hand and endeavoured to sooth her almost breaking heart. This was Jack Andrews and this his sweetheart to whom he was betrothed:—they were to have been married in a few weeks, when the route came which was now about to separate them for a considerable time—if not for ever. Her mother now came up to her, and although evidently affected at her daughter’s situation, put on an appearance of gaiety which only made things worse. Andrews loved the girl, and it is but just to say she was worthy of his most tender regard: all the town, as well as the regiment, knew of their attachment. The girl had two hundred pounds fortune. Jack Andrews was to have purchased his discharge, and to have settled in Ireland, along with Ellen Hart (that was her name). All her friends highly approved of the match; for Jack was as amiable and as good-looking a man as any in the regiment to which he belonged. Corporal Callaghan, having dispatched his own affairs with those numerous acquaintances which a fellow of his peculiarly pleasant and sociable qualities must naturally possess, when domiciled for a very considerable time in an Irish country town, now came up to Andrews, and tapping him on the shoulder, exclaimed, “Blood an’ ouns! Jack, my boy, I’m sorry Ellen Hart is not coming along with us. Can’t you ax her mother, there, to let her go?—Ellen, give us your hand. By the powers! if I had such another as you, I’d have you up at the top o’ the baggage, there, with Mrs. Mullowny, in a jiffy. The divil a toe you should stay behind me.”
Andrews smiled and sighed; Ellen’s tears only fell faster, and her mother was about to reply, when her attention was arrested by another object. “Here,” said she, “is my uncle—poor old man! he hasn’t seen you this whole year, Ellen; so don’t be so sorrowful-looking.”
The uncle advanced—it was Old Worral; and the astonishment which Andrews felt at finding him the grand-uncle of his Ellen may be imagined. Things were briefly explained; and the veteran, seizing the hand of Andrews as well as that of Ellen, exclaimed, “I see you are a couple that ought not to be separated; but I know what the service is—no woman can be certain of permission to embark with her husband; therefore you must be patient, and hope to be united soon. Young man, you are going to a foreign country, to meet the dangers of the field, and I am on the verge of the grave—we may or may not meet again: but here, before we do part, let me, in the presence of her mother, give you my consent to marry my dear Ellen. I see you are a good young man, and she is worthy of you—she loves you, and, from what I hear, I have no doubt you love her;—there; I give her to you, and two hundred pounds,—the savings of a long life. If you return safe from Portugal, and marry my dear little Ellen—if you both come happily together, and that it please God to put me under ground before that time—all I ask is, that you drink poor Old Worrel’s health, and be kind to Ellen Hart.”
“That I will,” said Andrews, as he took up his musket, which he had placed against a tree—for the regiment was ordered to fall in, the drums were beating, and the parting word passing from many. After an instant’s pause, he took the hand of the old man, and with great emotion said, “O! take care of her,” then pressed once more his Ellen to his breast: neither he nor she spoke a word—they could not; but their hearts beat closely together, and right well understood each other. The old man and the mother of the girl stood gazing sorrowfully; and even O’Callaghan’s eyes were about to betray him into weakness. The lovers separated; and with the blessing of the old soldier and his niece, Jack Andrews and the Corporal hastened to fall into the ranks. All was now ready—the commanding officer gave the word “Quick, March!”—the band struck up “The girl I left behind me,”—and with three huzzas from the crowd, the gallant soldiers marched off from Ballycraggen, to take, once more, the field against the enemies of their country.
THE END.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY S. AND R. BENTLEY, DORSET STREET.
⁂ The interesting music for which the songs of this work were written, is preparing for publication, with the words attached thereto; and will shortly be ready for delivery at the music shops.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The technical term for a particular movement in the art of Irish village dancing.