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Kipling never said a shrewder or truer thing than when he made Mulvaney, the old Irish drill-sergeant, tell the new recruit, "Remimber, me son, a soljer on the marrch is no betther than his feet!" and this applies largely to the march of life as well.
The drums and fifes were playing "Unadilla" as the regiment marched past; and my riflemen, lounging along the roadside, exchanged pleasantries with the hardy Palatines, or greeted acquaintances in their impudent, bantering manner: "Hello! What's this Low Dutch regiment? Say, Han Yost, the pigs has eat off your queue-band! Bedad, they marrch like Albany ducks in fly-time!
"At yon three Gairman spies, gaun' up a close for tae despatch some wireless telegraphy fufty roonds fire!" To which Private M'Leary, not to be outdone, responds "Public hoose in the baur back o' seeven o'clock twa drams fower fingers rapid!" From this it is a mere step to "Butt Pairty, 'shun! Forrm fourrs! Right! By your left, quick marrch!" on a bleak and cheerless morning in late October.
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