“I understand,” said Hixley, “they have some intention at the Horse Guards of having all the general orders set to popular tunes, and sung at every mess in the service. You’ve heard that, I suppose, Sparks?”
“I confess I had not before.”
“It will certainly come very hard upon the subalterns,” continued Hixley, with much gravity. “They’ll have to brush up their sol mi fas. All the solos are to be their part.”
“What rhymes with slaughter?” said Power.
“Brandy-and-water,” said the adjutant.
“Now, then,” said Power, “are you all ready?”
“Ready.”
“You must chorus, mind; and mark me, take care you give the hip-hip-hurra well, as that’s the whole force of the chant. Take the time from me. Now for it. Air, ‘Garryowen,’ with spirit, but not too quick.
“Now that we’ve pledged each eye of blue,
And every maiden fair and true,
And our green island home,—to you
The ocean’s wave adorning,
Let’s give one Hip-hip-hip-hurra!
And, drink e’en to the coming day,
When, squadron square,
We’ll all be there,
To meet the French in the morning.
“May his bright laurels never fade,
Who leads our fighting fifth brigade,
Those lads so true in heart and blade,
And famed for danger scorning.
So join me in one Hip-hurra!
And drink e’en to the coming day,
When, squadron square,
We’ll all be there,
To meet the French in the morning.
“And when with years and honors crowned,
You sit some homeward hearth around,
And hear no more the stirring sound
That spoke the trumpet’s warning,
You’ll fill and drink, one Hip-hurra!
And pledge the memory of the day,
When, squadron square,
They all were there,
To meet the French in the morning.”
“Gloriously done, Fred!” cried Hixley. “If I ever get my deserts in this world, I’ll make you Laureate to the Forces, with a hogshead of your own native whiskey for every victory of the army.”