You will
please to commence the attack with your brigade." Bending his head until
the green plumes of his beaver mingled with the mane of the Shetland
pony which he rode, the Prince of Ireland trotted off with his
aides-de-camp; who rode the same horses, powerful grays, with which a
dealer at Nantz had supplied them on their and the Prince's joint bill
at three months.
The gallant sons of Erin had wisely slept until the last minute in
their potato-trenches, but rose at once at the summons of their beloved
Prince. Their toilet was the work of a moment--a single shake and it
was done. Rapidly forming into a line, they advanced headed by their
Generals,--who, turning their steeds into a grass-field, wisely
determined to fight on foot. Behind them came the line of British
foot under the illustrious Jenkins, who marched in advance perfectly
collected, and smoking a Manilla cigar. The cavalry were on the right
and left of the infantry, prepared to act in pontoon, in echelon, or in
ricochet, as occasion might demand. The Prince rode behind, supported by
his Staff, who were almost all of them bishops, archdeacons, or abbes;
and the body of ecclesiastics followed, singing to the sound, or rather
howl, of serpents and trombones, the Latin canticles of the Reverend
Franciscus O'Mahony, lately canonized under the name of Saint Francis of
Cork.
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