round until he was near enough
to fling into the German trench the bombs he carried, and, as he put it
later in reporting to the O.C., 'give 'em something to hate about.'

And each evening after that, for as long as they were in the trenches,
the men of the Tower Bridge Foot made a particular point of singing the
'Hymn of Hate,' and the wild yell of 'England' that came at the end of
each verse might almost have pleased any enemy of England's instead of
aggravating them intensely, as it invariably did the Germans opposite,
to the extent of many wasted rounds.

'It's been a great do, Snapper,' said Private 'Enery Irving some days
after, as the battalion tramped along the road towards 'reserve
billets.' 'An' I 'aven't enjoyed myself so much for months. Didn't it
rag 'em beautiful, an' won't we fair stagger the 'ouse at the next
sing-sing o' the brigade?'

Snapper chuckled and breathed contentedly into his beloved mouth-organ,
and first 'Enery and then the marching men took up the words:

'Ite of the 'eart, an' 'ite of the 'and,
'Ite by water, an' 'ite by land,
'Oo do we 'ite to beat the band?

(deficient memories, it will be noticed, being compensated by effective
inventions in odd lines).

The answering roar of 'England' startled almost to shying point the
horse of a brigadier trotting up to the tail of the column.

'What on earth are those fellows singing?' he asked one of his officers
while soothing his mount.

'I'm not sure, sir,' said the officer, 'but I believe--by the words of
it--yes, it's the Germans' "Hymn of Hate."'

A French staff officer riding with the brigadier stared in
astonishment, first at the marching men, and then at the brigadier, who
was rocking with laughter in his saddle.

'Where on earth did they get the tune? I've never heard it before,'
said the brigadier, and tried to hum it. The staff officer told him
something of the tale as he had heard it, and the Frenchman's amazement
and the brigadier's laughter grew as the tale was told.

We 'ave one foe, an' one alone--England!

bellowed the Towers, and out of the pause that came so effectively
before the last word of the verse rose a triumphant squeal from the
mouth-organ, and the appealing voice of Private 'Enery Irving--'Naw
then, put a bit of 'ate into it.' But even that artist of the emotions
had to admit his critical sense of the dramatic fully satisfied by the
tone of vociferous wrath and hatred flung into the Towers'