Democrats as they escorted New York's first colored regiment to
their place of embarkation; my old brigade sang it softly, but
with a swing that was terrible in its earnestness, as they lay
behind their stacks of arms just before going to action; I have
heard it played over the grave of many a dead comrade; the semi-
mutinous--the cavalry became peaceful and patriotic again as their
band-master played the old air after having asked permission to
try HIS hand on them; it is the same that burst forth
spontaneously in our barracks, on that glorious morning when we
learned that the war was over, and it was sung, with words adapted
to the occasion, by some good rebel friends of mine, on our first
social meeting after the war. All these recollections came
hurrying into my mind as I sang, and probably excited me beyond my
knowledge, for Budge suddenly remarked:--

"Don't sing that all day, Uncle Harry; you sing so loud, it hurts
my head."

"Beg your pardon, Budge," said I. "Good-night."

"Why, Uncle Harry, are you going? You didn't hear us say our
prayers,--papa always does."

"Oh! Well, go ahead."

"You must say yours first," said Budge; "that's the way papa
does."

"Very well," said I, and I repeated St. Chrysostom's prayer, from
the Episcopal service. I had hardly said "Amen," when Budge