Tommy Atkins to right of us; Tommy Atkins to left of us, cobblestones
beneath us, we staggered and swayed. The English boys cheered and yelled a
greeting. It was rousing, it was thrilling, it was a welcome that did our
hearts good; but we could not rise to the occasion.
Suddenly from out of the crowd of khaki figures there came a voice--that of
a true son of the East End--a suburb of Whitechapel was surely his cappy
home.
"S'y, 'ere comes the Singin' Can-ydians ... 'Ere they come ... 'Ear their
singin'."
Not a sound from our ranks. Silence. But it was too much. No one can offer
a gibe to a man of the West without his getting it back. Far from down our
column some one yelled:
"Are we downhearted?" "No!" We peeled back the answer raucously enough, and
then on with the song:
Are we downhearted? No, no, no.
Are we downhearted? No, no, no.
Troubles may come and troubles may go,
But we keep smiling where'er we go,
Are we downhearted? Are we downhearted?
No, no, _NO_!
"No, Gor'blimey, y'er not down'earted, but yer look bally well
broken-'earted," chanted our small Cockney comrade, with sarcasm ringing
strong in every clipped tone of his voice.
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