long line of khaki-clad
soldiers went on their way. That night was one to be remembered.

We went off from the parade ground, a thousand strong, along the
sloping road that sweeps down the hill on which our town is built.
Giggling girls watched us depart--they are ever there when the
soldiers are on the move--old gentlemen and ladies wished us luck as
we passed, but never a head of a thousand heads turned to the left
or right, never a tongue replied to the cheery greetings; we were
marching at attention, with arms at the trail.

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,