The interlude showed a moonlighted dell. On the distant hilltop was the gleam of white tents; in the foreground stood a woman as colorless in robe and visage as the moonbeams. Her voice, silvery and plaintive, thrilled through the crowded rooms:
“Give us a song!” the soldiers cried,
The outer trenches guarding,
When the heated guns of the camps allied
Grew weary of bombarding.
And so, in distinct, unimpassioned narrative up to—
They sang of love and not of fame,
Forgot was Britain’s glory;
Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang “Annie Laurie.”