The Military Sketch-Book, Vol. 2 (of 2) Reminiscences of seventeen years in the service abroad and at home — Text and Context

along with them, they would not refuse two extra guards in the week.

The fire was soon surrounded, and Peninsular Bob, the sergeant of the guard, bestirred himself from his snooze in the old arm chair, right in front of the hearth, to listen to the fine voice and admire the musical taste of Jack Andrews.

“Why,” said Jack, “the song of ‘The Guerilla’ is a very sweet thing, when sung by two voices; but without two it is not quite so good. Corporal Callaghan knows it well, and has often sung it with me; so as soon as he returns from relieving the sentries, I’ll sing the song with him, if you can persuade him to it. He knows the air better than I do, for he learnt it from the Guerillas themselves when there was a troop of them at Tolosa, and I learnt it from him; but if you have no objection, lads, I’ll sing a song which the Captain wrote to a fine bold and romantic French air, which I have heard the French soldiers singing many a night, close to my own post.”

Of course, the proposal was received unanimously; and when silence was perfectly restored, (for all spoke on the subject at once,) Jack Andrews sang the following song, first having taken the precaution of shutting the door, lest he might happen to be heard outside although there was very little danger of being surprised by any of the officers in his melodious dereliction from strict military practice.

When o’er the camp the midnight moonlight beams, And soldiers’ eyes are seal’d in happy slumber, The wakeful sentinel his watch proclaims, And silence sweetly swells the echoing number: Oh! then to Heaven his eyes he turns, And murmurs with a glowing sigh, “Angels bright that dwell above, Tell my country, tell my love, For them--for them I watch, for them I’ll die!”

And, as the foe’s night-fires before him play, His bosom swells with flames still stronger burning; He gazes on them--wishes for the day, With glory and the fight once more returning! Oh! then to Heaven his eyes he turns, And murmurs with a glowing sigh, “Angels bright that dwell above, Tell my country, tell my love, For them--for them I’ll fight, for them I’ll die!”

And should he, in the battle’s raging heat, With valiant heart and arm the foe confounding; Oh! should the hero then his death-wound meet, And Victory his glorious knell be sounding, Again to Heaven his eyes he turns, And murmurs with his life’s last sigh, “Angels bright that dwell above, Tell my country, tell my love, For them--for them I fought, for them I die!”

This, sung in admirable style by the manly voice of Jack Andrews, had a powerful effect upon the listeners, for the air was of a romantically martial character, composed during the best days of Napoleon’s glory, when chivalric enthusiasm infused itself into every shade of French imagination. There was not a man of the guard who had not served in the Peninsula during the brightest period of England’s military grandeur, when she stood opposed to Napoleon’s greatest heroes; and from a recollection of the scenes of that time, awakened by the song, there arose a feeling in every breast around the humble hearth of Ballycraggen Guard-house, which commanders might have envied, and philosophers admired. It brought all back to the romance of war; it placed them in situations familiar to their fancy; it touched the most delightful chord of the soldier’s heart, and every tongue became eloquent upon the source of its sensations. There is no sign in Nature’s mnemonics like music: it is a talisman of power. Moore has beautifully expressed this in poetry, but not so effectually as the following lines, attributed to the unfortunate Ensign Dermody.

To him whose heart is dark with shades of care, How sweet’s the melody it loved to hear In days gone by! Yet bitter is the strain: Oh! ’tis a mingling of delight with pain; For, though the hand of Time well-nigh efface Each blur and furrow--each deforming trace, Which stern Adversity’s harsh hand design’d To spoil the lively landscape of the mind, Some passing sound, some melancholy lay, The favour’d pleasure of some former day, Falls on his soul; and, as the listener hears, Forth comes the magic stream of memory’s tears, Which, dropping on the picture, bright again Enlivens alike each beauty and each stain, Casting a varnish of so mix’d a dye That (by its gloss) ’twill please yet pain the eye!