“The Germans was the best I ever knew for music,” broke in Craggs. “I was brigaded with Arentschild's Hanoverians in Spain; and they used to sit outside the tents every evening, and sing. By Jove! how they did sing—all together, like the swell of a church organ.”
“Yes, you're right,” said Billy, but evidently yielding an unwilling assent to this doctrine. “The Germans has a fine national music, and they 're great for harmony. But harmony and melody is two different things.”
“And which is best, Billy?” asked one of the company.
“Musha, but I pity your ignorance,” said Billy, with a degree of confusion that raised a hearty laugh at his expense.
“Well, but where's the song?” exclaimed another.
“Ay,” said Craggs, “we are forgetting the song. Now for it, Billy. Since all is going on so well above stairs, I'll draw you a gallon of ale, boys, and we 'll drink to the master's speedy recovery.”
It was a rare occasion when the Corporal suffered himself to expand in this fashion, and great was the applause at the unexpected munificence.
Billy at the same moment took out his fiddle and began that process of preparatory screwing and scraping which, no matter how distressing to the surrounders, seems to afford intense delight to performers on this instrument. In the present case, it is but fair to say, there was neither comment nor impatience; on the contrary, they seemed to accept these convulsive throes of sound as an earnest of the grand flood of melody that was coming. That Billy was occupied with other thoughts than those of tuning was, however, apparent, for his lips continued to move rapidly; and at moments he was seen to beat time with his foot, as though measuring out the rhythm of a verse.
“I have it now, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, making a low obeisance to the company; and so saying, he struck up a very popular tune, the same to which a reverend divine wrote his words of “The night before Larry was Stretched;” and in a voice of a deep and mellow fulness, managed with considerable taste, sang—
“'A fig for the chansons of France,
Whose meaning is always a riddle;
The music to sing or to dance
Is an Irish tune played on the fiddle.
To your songs of the Rhine and the Rhone
I 'm ready to cry out I am satis;
Just give us something of our own
In praise of our Land of Potatoes.
Tol lol de lol, etc.