"One with whiskers on it!" said the corporal.
"I'll slash the game up and give a rale ould song, whiskers to the toes of it," said Feelan, shoving his sword in its scabbard and throwin' himself flat back on the straw. "Its a song about the time Irelan' was fightin' for freedom and it's called The Rising of the Moon! A great song entirely it is, and I cannot do it justice."
Feelan stood up, his legs wide apart and both his thumbs stuck in the upper pockets of his tunic. Behind him the barn stretched out into the gloom that our solitary candle could not pierce. On either side rifles hung from the wall, and packs and haversacks stood high from the straw in which most of the men had buried themselves, leaving nothing but their faces, fringed with the rims of Balaclava helmets, exposed to view. The night was bitterly cold, outside where the sky stood high splashed with countless stars and where the earth gripped tight on itself, the frost fiend was busy; in the barn, with its medley of men, roosting hens and prowling rats all was cosy and warm. Feelan cleared his throat and commenced the song, his voice strong and clear filled the barn:—
"Arrah! tell me Shan O'Farrel; tell me why you hurry so?"
"Hush, my bouchal, hush and listen," and his cheeks were all aglow—
"I've got orders from the Captain to get ready quick and soon
For the pikes must be together at the risin' of the moon,
At the risin' of the moon!
At the risin' of the moon!
And the pikes must be together at the risin' of the moon!"
"That's some song," said the corporal. "It has got guts in it. I'm sick of these ragtime rotters!"
"The old songs are always the best ones," said Feelan, clearing his throat preparatory to commencing a second verse.
"What about Uncle Joe?" asked Goliath, and was off with a regimental favourite.
When Uncle Joe plays a rag upon his old banjo—
("Oh!" the occupants of the barn yelled.)
Ev'rybody starts a swayin' to and fro—
("Ha!" exclaimed the barn.)
Mummy waddles all around the cabin floor!—
("What!" we chorused.)
Crying, "Uncle Joe, give us more, give us more!"
"Give us no more of that muck!" exclaimed Feelan, burrowing into the straw, no doubt a little annoyed at being interrupted in his song. "Damn ragtime!"
"There's ginger in it!" said Goliath. "Your old song is as flat as French beer!"