Wan man who was good at figures counted
as manny as forty-two thousan' eight hundhred an' sivin burstin' within
a radyus iv wan fut. Ye can imagine th' hor-rible carnage. Colonel C. G.
F. K. L. M. N. O. P. Hetherington-Casey-Higgins lost his eye-glass tin
times, th' las' time almost swallowin' it, while ye'er faithful
corryspondint was rindered deaf be th' explosions. Another Irish
rig'mint has disappearded, th' Twelve Thousandth an' Eighth, Dublin
Fusiliers. Brave fellows, 'tis suspicted they mistook th' explosion of
lyddite f'r a Pathrick's Day procession an' wint acrost to take a look
at it."
"Murdher, but 'tis dhreadful to r-read about. We have to change all our
conciptions iv warfare. Wanst th' field was r-red, now 'tis a br-right
lyddite green. Wanst a man wint out an' died f'r his counthry, now they
sind him out an' lyddite dyes him. What do I mane? 'Tis a joke I made.
I'll not explane it to ye. Ye wudden't undherstand it. 'Tis f'r th'
eddycated classes."
"How they're iver goin' to get men to fight afther this I cudden't tell
ye. 'Twas bad enough in th' ol' days whin all that happened to a sojer
was bein' pinithrated be a large r-round gob iv solder or stuck up on
th' end iv a baynit be a careless inimy. But now-a-days, they have th'
bullet that whin it enthers ye tur-rns ar-round like th' screw iv a
propeller, an' another wan that ye might say goes in be a key-hole an'
comes out through a window, an' another that has a time fuse in it an'
it doesn't come out at all but stays in ye, an' mebbe twinty years
afther, whin ye've f'rgot all about it an' ar-re settin' at home with
ye'er fam'ly, bang! away it goes an' ye with it, carryin' off half iv
th' roof.
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