"You talk about Irishmen, now, Enlistin' by thousands from loyalty; But _wait till the Phoenix Brigade Is called to put down British Royalty_!

It's then with the Stars and the Stripes All Irishmen here would go in again, To strike for the Shamrock and Harp!"-- "You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

"Och, murther! me blood's in a blaze, To think of bould Corcoran leading us Right into the camp of the bastes Whose leeches so long have been bleeding us!

The Stars and the Stripes here at home To Canada's walls we would pin again, And wouldn't we raise them in Cork?"-- "You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

"And down at the South, do ye mind, There's plinty of Irishmen mustering, Deluded to fight for the wrong By rebel mis-statements and bl.u.s.tering; But once let ould England, their foe, To fight with the Union begin again, And sure, they'd desert to a man!"-- "You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

"There's niver an Irishmen born, From Maine to the end of Secessiondom.

But longs for a time and a chance To fight for this country in Hessian-dom; And so, if ould England should try With treacherous friendship to sin again, They'll all be on one side at once"-- "You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

"We've brothers in Canada, too-- (And didn't the Prince have a taste of them?)-- To say that to Ireland they're true Is certainly saying the laste of them.

If, bearing our flag at our head, We rose Ireland's freedom to win again, They'd murther John Bull in the rear!"-- "You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

"Hurroo! for the Union, me boys, And divil take all who would bother it, Secession's a nagur so black The divil himself ought to father it; Hurroo! for the bould 69th, That's prisintly bound to go in again; It's Corcoran's rescue they're at"-- "You're right, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

"I'm off right away to enlist, And sure won't the bounty be handy-O!

To kape me respectably dressed And furnish me dudheens and brandy-O!

I'm thinkin', me excellent friend, Ye're eyeing that bottle of gin again; You wouldn't mind thryin' a drop"-- "You're _right_, sir," says Misther McFinnigan.

British neutrality, my boy, reminds me of a chap I once knew in the Sixth Ward. Two solid men, who didn't get drunk more than once a day, were running for alderman, and they both made a dead set on this chap; but they hadn't any money, and he couldn't see it.

"See here, old tops," says he, "I'll be a neutral this time; so go in porgies!"

Well, my boy, the election came off, and neither of the old tops was elected. No, sir! Now, who do you suppose _was_ elected?

The _Neutral Chap_, my boy!

Mad as hornets with the hydrophobia, the two old tops went to see him, and says they:

"Confound your picture, didn't you promise to be neutral?"

The chap dipped his nose into a c.o.c.ktail, and then says he, blandly:

"I _was_ neutral, old Persimmonses. I only went to fifty Democrats, and got 'em to vote for me. Then to be neutral, I had to get fifty of the other feller's Black Republicans to do the same thing. Then I voted twelve times for myself, _and went in_."

It was a very beautiful case, my boy, and the old tops were only heard to utter--they were only known to exclaim--they were barely able to articulate--that neutrality didn't pay.

Early yesterday morning, my boy, Company B, Regiment 3, Mackerel Brigade, went down toward Centreville on a reconnoissance in force under Captain Bob Shorty. The Captain is a highly intellectual patriot, and don't get his sword twisted between his legs when he carries it in his hand. He led the company through the mud like a Christmas duck, until they came to a thicket in which something was seen to move.

"Halt, you tarriers!" says Captain Bob Shorty, in a voice trembling with bravery. "Form yourselves into a square according to Hardee, while I stir up this here bush. There's something in that bush," says he, "and it's either the Southern Confederacy, or some other cow."

The captain then leaned up to a tree to make him steady on his pins, my boy, and rammed his sword into the bushes like a poker into a fire--thus:

n.o.body hurt on our side.

What followed, my boy, can be easily told. At an early hour on the evening of the same day, a solitary horseman might have been seen approaching Washington. It was Captain Bob Shorty, with his hat caved in, and a rainbow spouting under his left eye. He went straight to the head-quarters of the General of the Mackerel Brigade, and says he:

"General, I've reconnoitered in force, and found the enemy both numerious and cantankerous."

"Beautiful!" says the general; "but where is your company?"

"Well, now," says Captain Bob Shorty, "you'd hardly believe it; but the last I see of that ere company, it was engaged in the pursuit of happiness at the rate of six miles an hour, with the rebels at the wrong end of the track. Dang my rations!" says Captain Bob Shorty, "if I don't think that ere bob-tailed company has got to Richmond by this time."

"Thunder!" says the general, "didn't they kill any of the rebels?"

"Nary a Confederacy," says Captain Bob Shorty. "The bullets all rolled out of them ere muskets of theirs before the powder got fairly on fire.

Them muskets," continued Captain Bob Shorty, "would be good for a bombardment. You might possibly hit a city with them at two yards'

range; but in personal encounters they are inferior to the putty-blowers of our innocent childhood."

As the captain made this observation, my boy, he stepped hurriedly to the table, lifted a tumbler containing the Oath to his pallid lips, took a seat in the coal-scuttle, and burst into a flood of tears.

Deeply affected by this touching display of a beautiful trait in our common nature, the general placed a small piece of ice on the captain's slanting brow, and hid his own emotions in a bottle holding about a quart.

In reference to the beautiful battle-piece, accompanying this epistle, my boy, allow me to observe that it was taken on the spot by the _Chiar' oscuro_ artist, Patrick de la Roach, well-known in his native Italy as "Roachy." He studied in Rome (New York), and has a style peculiar for its width of tone and length of breath. The dark complexion of the figures in this fine picture represents the effects of the Virginia sun. Our troops are much tanned. The work was painted in oil colors with a bit of charcoal, my boy, and a copy of it will probably be ordered for the Capitol.

Yours, for high old art,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

LETTER XXIV.

NARRATING THE MACKEREL BRIGADE'S MANNER OF CELEBRATING CHRISTMAS, AND NOTING A DEADLY AFFAIR OF HONOR BETWEEN TWO WELL-KNOWN OFFICERS.

WASHINGTON, D.C., December 26th, 1861.

A Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, my boy, and the same to yourself.

The recurrence of these gay old annuals makes me feel as ancient as the First Families of Virginia, and as grave as a church-yard. How well I remember my first Christmas! Early in the morning, my dignified paternal presented me with a beautiful spanking, and then my maternal touched me up with her slipper to stop my crying. Sensible people are the women of America, my boy; they slap a boy on his upper end, which makes him howl, and then hit him on the other end to stop his noise.

There's good logic in the idea, my boy. That first Christmas of mine was memorable from the fact that my present was a drum, on which I executed a new opera of my own composition with such good effect, that in the evening, a deputation of superannuated neighbors and old maids waited on my father with a pet.i.tion that he would send me to sea immediately.

But to return to the present, suffer me to observe that last Wednesday was celebrated by the Mackerel Brigade in a manner worthy of the occasion. Two hundred turkeys belonging to the Southern Confederacy were served up for dinner, and from what I tasted, I am satisfied that they belonged to the First Families. They were very tough, my boy.

In the evening, there was a ball, to which a number of the women of America were invited. Captain Villiam Brown came up from Accomac on purpose to attend, and looked, as the General of the Mackerel Brigade genteelly expressed it, like a bag of indigo that had been out without an umbrella in a hard shower of bra.s.s b.u.t.tons. The general has an acute perception of the Beautiful, my boy.

Villiam took the Oath six times, and then took a survey of the festive scene through the bottom of a tumbler. The first person he recognized was the youngest Miss Muggins, waltzing like a deranged balloon with Captain Bob Shorty. Captain Bob was spinning around like a dislocated pair of tongs, and smirked like a happy fiend. Villiam gave one stare, put the tumbler in his pocket, and then made a bee-line for the pair.

"Miss Muggins," says he, "you'll obleege me by dropping that air ma.s.s of bra.s.s b.u.t.tons and moustaches, and dancing with me."

"I beg your parding, sir," says Miss Muggins, with dignity, "but I chooses my own company."

"Villiam," says Captain Bob Shorty, "if you don't take that big nose of yours away, it will be my painful duty to set it a little further back in your repulsive countenance."

Then Villiam _was_ mad. He hastily b.u.t.toned his coat up to the neck, took a bite of tobacco, and says he:

"Captain Shorty, we have lived like br-r-others; I have borrowed many a quarter of you; and you promised that when I died, you would wrap me up in the American flag. But now you are mine enemy, and--ha! ha!--I am yours. Wilt fight?"