Then presently come snatches of a humorously amorous nature--"Hallo,
Hallo, Who's Your Lady Friend?"; "You're my Baby"; and the
ungrammatical "Who Were You With Last Night?" Another great favourite
is an involved composition which always appears to begin in the
middle. It deals severely with the precocity of a youthful lover who
has been detected wooing his lady in the Park. Each verse ends, with
enormous gusto--

"Hold your haand _oot_, you naughty boy!"

Tramp, tramp, tramp. Now we are passing through a village. The
inhabitants line the pavement and smile cheerfully upon us--they are
always kindly disposed toward "Scotchies"--but the united gaze of the
rank and file wanders instinctively from the pavement towards upper
windows and kitchen entrances, where the domestic staff may be
discerned, bunched together and giggling. Now we are out on the
road again, silent and dusty. Suddenly, far in the rear, a voice of
singular sweetness strikes up "The Banks of Loch Lomond." Man after
man joins in, until the swelling chorus runs from end to end of the
long column. Half the battalion hail from the Loch Lomond district,
and of the rest there is hardly a man who has not indulged, during
some Trades' Holiday or other, in "a pleesure trup" upon its historic
but inexpensive waters.

"You'll tak' the high road and I'll tak' the low
road--"

On we swing, full-throated. An English battalion, halted at a
cross-road to let us go by, gazes curiously upon us. "Tipperary" they