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." It runs:
"It is said by our commanders that in trenches out by Flanders