“The first person to meet us in France,” writes a British officer, “was the pilot, and the first intimation of his presence was a huge voice in the darkness, which roared out ’A bas Guillaume.  Eep, eep, ‘ooray!’” As transport after transport sailed into Boulogne, and regiment after regiment landed, the population went into ecstasies of delight.  Through the narrow streets of the old town the soldiers marched, singing, whistling, and cheering, with a wave of their caps to the women and a kiss wafted to the children (but not only to the children!) on the route.  As they swept along, their happy faces and gallant bearing struck deep into the emotions of the spectators.  “What brave fellows, to go into battle laughing!” exclaimed one old woman, whose own sons had been called to the army of the Republic.

It was strange to hear the pipes of the Highlanders skirl shrilly through old Boulogne, and to catch the sound of English voices in the clarion notes of the “Marseillaise,” but, strangest of all to French ears, to listen to that new battle-cry, “Are we down-hearted?” followed by the unanswerable “No—­o—­o!” of every regiment.  And then the lilt of that new marching song to which Tommy Atkins has given immortality:—­

    “It’s A long, long way to Tipperary"[B]

    Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day;
    As the streets are paved with gold, sure ev’ry one was gay,
    Singing songs of Piccadilly, Strand and Leicester Square,
    Till Paddy got excited, then he shouted to them there: 

    Chorus

    It’s a long way to Tipperary,
      It’s a long way to go;
    It’s a long way to Tipperary,
      To the sweetest girl I know! 
    Good-by Piccadilly,
      Farewell Leicester Square. 
    It’s a long, long way to Tipperary,
      But my heart’s right there! 
          It’s a’ there!

    Paddy wrote a letter to his Irish Molly O’,
    Saying, “Should you not receive it, write and let me know! 
    If I make mistakes in spelling, Molly dear,” said he,
    “Remember it’s the pen that’s bad, don’t lay the blame on me.”

    (Chorus)

    Molly wrote a neat reply to Irish Paddy O’,
    Saying, “Mike Maloney wants to marry me, and so
    Leave the Strand and Piccadilly, or you’ll be to blame,
    For love has fairly drove me silly—­hoping you’re the same!”

    (Chorus)

It may seem odd that the soldier should care so little for martial songs, or the songs that are ostensibly written for him; but that is not the fault of Tommy Atkins.  Lyric poets don’t give him what he calls “the stuff.”  He doesn’t get it even from Kipling; Thomas Hardy’s “Song of the Soldiers” leaves him cold.  He wants no epic stanzas, no heroic periods.  What he asks for is something simple and romantic, something about a girl, and home, and the lights of London—­that goes with a swing in the march and awakens tender memories when the lilt of it is wafted at night along the trenches.