n
telling it, the whole was over and I sitting by myself in the gray
moonlight, meditating on all I saw, and now and then shouting for my
Portuguese friends to come back again. They came in time, by twos and
threes; and at last the whole party re-assembled, and we set forth again,
every man, from the intendant to the drummer, lauding my valor, and saying
that Don Monsoon was a match for the Cid."

"And how did the Junta behave?"

"Like trumps, Charley. Made me a Knight of Battalha, and kissed me on both
cheeks, having sent twelve dozen of the rescued wine to my quarters, as a
small testimony of their esteem. I have laughed very often at it since. But
hush, Charley? What's that I hear without there?"

"Oh, it's my fellow Mike. He asked my leave to entertain his friends before
parting, and I perceive he is delighting them with a song."

"But what a confounded air it is! Are the words Hebrew?"

"Irish, Major; most classical Irish, too, I'll be bound!"

"Irish! I've heard most tongues, but that certainly surprises me. Call him
in, Charley, and let us have the canticle."

In a few minutes more, Mr. Free appeared in a state of very satisfactory
elevation, his eyebrows alternately rising and falling, his mouth a little
drawn to one side, and a side motion in his knee-joints that might puzzle a
physiologist to account for.

"A sweet little song of yours, Mike," said the major; "a very sweet thing
indeed. Wet your lips, Mickey."

"Long life to your honor and Master Charles there, too, and them that
belongs to both of yez. May a gooseberry skin make a nightcap for the man
would harm either of ye."

"Thank you, Mike. And now about that song."

"It's the ouldest tune ever was sung," said Mike, with a hiccough, "barring
Adam had a taste for music; but the words--the poethry--is not so ould."

"And how comes that?"

"The poethry, ye see, was put to it by one of my ancesthors,--he was a
great inventhor in times past, and made beautiful songs,--and ye'd never
guess what it's all about."

"Love, mayhap?" quoth Monsoon.

"Sorra taste of kissing from beginning to end."

"A drinking song?" said I.

"Whiskey is never mentioned."

"Fighting is the only other national pastime. It must be in praise of
sudden death?"

"You're out again; but sure you'd never guess it," said Mike. "Well, ye
see, here's what it is. It's the praise and glory of ould Ireland in the
great days that's gone, when we were all Phenayceans and Arme