have left me without a pleasure in existence.




CHAPTER XII.

DUBLIN--TOM O'FLAHERTY--A REMINISCENCE OF THE PENINSULA.

Dear, dirty Dublin--"Io te salute"--how many excellent things might be
said of thee, if, unfortunately, it did not happen that the theme is an
old one, and has been much better sung than it can ever now be said.
With thus much of apology for no more lengthened panegyric, let me beg of
my reader, if he be conversant with that most moving melody--the Groves
of Blarney--to hum the following lines, which I heard shortly after my
landing, and which well express my own feelings for the "loved spot."

Oh! Dublin, sure, there is no doubtin',
Beats every city upon the say.
'Tis there you'll see O'Connell spouting,
And Lady Morgan making "tay."
For 'tis the capital of the greatest nation
With finest peasantry on a fruitful sod,
Fighting like devils for conciliation,
And hating each other for the love of God.

Once more, then, I found myself in the "most car-drivingest city," en
route to join on the expiration of my leave. Since my departure, my
regiment had been ordered to Kilkenny, that sweet city, so famed in song
for its "fire without smoke;" but which, were its character in any way to