The sky stood high, splashed with stars, and the moon, pinched and
anaemic, hung above like a whitish speck of smoke that had curled into
a ball. Marching at the rear, I could see the long brown line
curving round a corner ahead, the butt-plates of the rifles sparkling
brightly, the white trenching-tool handles shaking backward and
forward at every move of the men.
"March easy!"
Half an hour had passed, and we were now in the open country. At
the word of command rifles were slung over the shoulders, and the
battalion found voice, first in brisk conversation and exchange
of witticisms, then in shouting and song. We have escaped from the
tyranny of "Tipperary," none of us sing it now, but that doggerel is
replaced by other music-hall abominations which are at present in the
full glory of their rocket-reign. A parody of a hymn, "Toiling on," is
also popular, and my Jersey mate gave it full vent on the left.
"Lager beer! lager beer!
There's a lager beer saloon across the way.
Lager bee-ee-eer!
Is there any lager beer to give away."
Although the goddess of music forgot me in the making, I found myself
roaring out the chorus for all I was worth along with my Jersey
friend.
"You're singing some!" he remarked, sarcastically, when the chorus
came to an end. "But, no wonder! This night would make a brass monkey
sing. It's grand to be alive!"
Every battalion has its marching songs. One of the favourites with us
was written by a certain rifleman in "C" Company, sung to the air of
"Off to Philadelphia in the Morning.
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