"My faithful Duke!" said the Prince, pulling him by the shoulder-knot, "thou art always at THY POST." "Here, as in Wellington Street, sire," said the hero, blushing.

And the Prince made an appropriate speech to his chivalry, in which allusions to the lilies, Saint Louis, Bayard and Henri Quatre, were, as may be imagined, not spared.

"Ho! standard-bearer!" the Prince concluded, "fling out my oriflamme.

Noble gents of France, your King is among you to-day!" Then turning to the Prince of Ballybunion, who had been drinking whiskey-punch all night with the Princes of Donegal and Connemara, "Prince," he said, "the Irish Brigade has won every battle in the French history--we will not deprive you of the honor of winning this.

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.