The sky stood high, splashed with stars, and the moon, pinched and anaemic, hung above like a whitish speck of smoke that had curled into a ball.  Marching at the rear, I could see the long brown line curving round a corner ahead, the butt-plates of the rifles sparkling brightly, the white trenching-tool handles shaking backward and forward at every move of the men.

“March easy!”

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
  There is work to do both trying and exciting,
  And the men who man the trenches, they are England’s men and
          French’s
  Where the legions of the khaki-clad are fighting. 
  Though bearing up so gaily they are waiting for us daily,
  For the fury of the foemen makes them nervous,
  But the foe may look for trouble when we charge them at the double,
  We, the London Irish out on active service.

Chorus.

    “With our rifles on our shoulder, sure there’s no one could be
          bolder,
    And we’ll double out to France when we get warnin’
    And we’ll not stop long for trifles, we’re the London Irish
          Rifles,
    When we go to fight the Germans in the mornin’.

  “An’ the girls:  oh it will grieve them when we take the train and
          leave them,
  Oh! what tears the dears will weep when we are moving,
  But it’s just the old, old story, on the path that leads to Glory,
  Sure we cannot halt for long to do our loving. 
  They’ll see us with emotion all departing o’er the ocean,
  And every maid a-weepin’ for her lover;
  ‘Good-bye’ we’ll hear them callin’, while so many tears are fallin’
  That they’d almost swamp the boat that takes us over.