And it really is by no means a game. As the
Colonel used to say (very moderately), 'Life out here is not all joy!'
One November evening I was picking my way cautiously through the mud
camp near Reninghelst, and hearing the tune of a famous hymn, drew near
to listen, for Jock sometimes sings to hymn tunes words that certainly
never appeared in any hymn-book, and I wanted to make sure that it _was_
the greatest hymn in the English language which was being sung. It was a
quiet night. Now and again a heavy gun fired a round, and infrequently,
on a gentle wind blowing from the trenches, was borne the rattle of a
machine-gun. From all the camp arose the subdued confused noise of an
army settling to rest for the night. Some tents were in darkness, in
others a candle burned, and here and there braziers still glowed redly.
It was from one of the lighted tents that the singing came, each part
being taken, and a sweet clear tenor voice leading. The tune was old
'Communion,' and they had just come to this verse:
'Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
Save in the death of Christ, my God:
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to His blood.
Pages:
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77