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Presently we received provisions and coffee (which would have charmed the
hearts of the Children of Israel in the Wilderness to say nothing of
Gentiles on
a river), which we despatched with a vigour only
acquired by persistent and consistent practice. Indeed, so severe were our
efforts, that we had to make steam at once for the port of Lisburn to buy
bread.
We landed there amidst a downpour of rain, and procured the following
provisions, amongst others :A rag mop, some rifle cartridges, a bottle of
Irish water, and a large supply of bread.
With these in possession, we were equal to any emergency which might arise,
but found, on getting 100 yards from land, that we had not the bread on
board. A friendly Lisburner ran along the bank with it, and succeeded in
throwing it on board, a feat which incontestably proved him to be a
well-bread young man.
About this time one of our passengers experienced a thirst for blood. He
armed himself with a doublebarrelled gun, and, stationing himself on the
prow of the boat, awaited a victim. His calm and determined figure
irresistibly brought to our mind those lines of Lord (?) Horatius
Macaulay's, which we publish with many apologies:
Alone stood the brave warrior,
But constant still in mind,
if there's not a single bird in front,
There are ten live folks behind.
But quickly looming before him,
As every one could ken,
Was an iron bridge across the stream,
Beneath it-a water-hen.
He quickly raised his rifle,
And took a deadly aim; |
He
placed his hand on the trigger,
And pulled with might and main.
Two loud reports from the rifle,
Which the echoes made a lot,
And then we heard that the bridge was hit,
And saw that the bird was not.
For she swam away quite gaily,
And laughed and crowed with glee,
At the futile efforts made by one
Whose name begins with D. |
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