Whiz! there goes a blue light." "Move on, move on," whispered O'Shaughnessy; "they're telling off the stormers.

That rocket is the order to fall in." "But what am I to do for a coat ?" "Take mine, my boy," said Maurice, throwing off an upper garment of coarse gray frieze as he spoke.
"There's a neat bit of uniform," continued he, turning himself round for our admiration; "don't I look mighty like the pictures of George the First at the battle of Dettingen!" A burst of approving laughter was our only answer to this speech, while Maurice proceeded to denude himself of his most extraordinary garment.
"What, in the name of Heaven, is it ?" said I.
"Don't despise it, Charley; it knows the smell of gunpowder as well as any bit of scarlet in the service;" while he added, in a whisper, "it's the ould Roscommon Yeomanry.

My uncle commanded them in the year '42, and this was his coat.

I don't mean to say that it was new then; for you see it's a kind of heirloom in the Quill family, and it's not every one I'd be giving it to." "A thousand thanks, Maurice," said I, as I buttoned it on, amidst an ill-suppressed titter of laughter.
"It fits you like a sentry-box," said Maurice, as he surveyed me with a lantern.

"The skirts separate behind in the most picturesque manner; and when you button the collar, it will keep your head up so high that the devil a bit you'll see except the blessed moon.