Reb. I’ll join in—and do you, comrades, bear a hand in the chorus.
Soldiers. Fire away!
Chispa sings.
I.
Titiri tiri, marching is weary,
Weary, weary, and long is the way:
Titiri tiri, hither, my deary,
What meat have you got for the soldier to-day?
‘Meat have I none, my merry men,’
Titiri tiri, then kill the old hen.