"Wonderful! And what might be the meaning of it, making so bold?"
"It means 'Speak well of the dead.'"
"Well, we're doing of it, anyhow. Hark to 'em ahead there!"
The cortege, in fact, was attracting general attention. Folks on the pavement halted to watch and grin as we went by: one or two, catching sight of familiar faces within the coaches, waved their handkerchiefs or shouted back salutations: and as we crawled out of Old Town Street and past St. Andrew's Church a small crowd raised three cheers for us. And still above it the cornet blared and the mourners' voices rose uproarious:
"His friends were many and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair;
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,
Ah, many's the time and oft!
But mirth is turned to melanchol—ol—y—
For Tom is gone aloft."
"His friends were many and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair;
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,
Ah, many's the time and oft!
But mirth is turned to melanchol—ol—y—
For Tom is gone aloft."
"Bill couldn't sing a note," Mr. Jope murmured: "but as you say, sir—Would you oblige us again?" Again the Latin was repeated, and he swung round upon me. "Think of that, now! Be you a scholar, hey?—read, write and cipher? How would you spell 'sojer' for instance?"
The question knocked the wind out of me, and I felt my face whitening under the clergyman's eyes.
"Soldier—S.O.L.D.I.E.R," I managed to answer, but scarce above a whisper.
"Very good: now make a rhyme to it."