ith a degree of
confusion that raised a hearty laugh at his expense.

"Well, but where's the song?" exclaimed another.

"Ay," said Craggs, "we are forgetting the song. Now for it, Billy. Since
all is going on so well above stairs, I'll draw you a gallon of ale,
boys, and we 'll drink to the master's speedy recovery."

It was a rare occasion when the Corporal suffered himself to expand in
this fashion, and great was the applause at the unexpected munificence.

Billy at the same moment took out his fiddle and began that process of
preparatory screwing and scraping which, no matter how distressing to
the surrounders, seems to afford intense delight to performers on
this instrument. In the present case, it is but fair to say, there was
neither comment nor impatience; on the contrary, they seemed to accept
these convulsive throes of sound as an earnest of the grand flood of
melody that was coming. That Billy was occupied with other thoughts than
those of tuning was, however, apparent, for his lips continued to move
rapidly; and at moments he was seen to beat time with his foot, as
though measuring out the rhythm of a verse.

"I have it now, ladies and gentlemen," he said, making a low obeisance
to the company; and so saying, he struck up a very popular tune, the
same to which a reverend divine wrote his words of "The night before
Larry was Stretched;" and in a voice of a deep and mellow fulness,
managed with considerable taste, sang--

"'A fig for the chansons of France,
Whose meaning is always a riddle;
The music to sing or to dance
Is an Irish tune played on the fiddle.

To your songs of the Rhine and the Rhone
I 'm ready to cry out I am satis;
Just give us something of our own
In praise of our Land of Potatoes.

Tol lol de lol, etc.

"'What care I for sorrows of those
Who speak of their heart as a cuore;
How expect me to feel for the woes
Of him who calls love an amore!

Let me have a few words about home,
With music whose strains I 'd remember,
And I 'll give you all Florence and Rome,
Tho' they have a blue sky in December.

Tol lol de lol, etc.

"'With a pretty face close to your own,
I 'm sore there's no rayson for sighing;
Nor when walkin' beside her alone,
Why the blazes be talking of dying!

That's the way tho', in France and in Spain,
Whe