"Here they come," cried one.--"Here they come," cried another--"the
gallant 42nd; look at the petticoat-devils, how they foot it along!"

All stood on the highest part of the ground, to witness the arrival of the
troops, who were now within a quarter of a mile of them on the main road.
A hum arose. Belgian officers galloped down the road, and across the
fields in all directions; the duke was seen riding towards his expected
soldiers, and the scene was life at all points. The pibroch's sound grew
louder; and now the bands of the more distant regiments were heard; and
the harmonious bugles of the rifle corps, mingled their sounds with the
others. The long red line of Britons is fully before the sight, like a
giant stream of blood on the ripe and mellow bosom of the earth. Picton is
at its head, and the duke greets the heroic partner of his glory. The
first of the regiments passes close to the troopers, and receives a cheer
from them, which found a return in the relaxing muscles of the hardy
Scots.

"What corps is that?" inquired one of the group.

"The Royal Highlanders, the 42nd--don't you see they are turned up with
blue and gold?" replied another.

"And what's this with the yellow facings?"

"The old 92nd."

"And the other Scotch regiment, with the green and gold?"

"The 79th; three as good kilted corps as ever crossed the Tweed. And
there's the 95th rifle boys, as green as the wood they are going to take.