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"Here wec-come sing old A'nt Rhody! See old Hecly paw up dirt. Stuff her pod with rocks and sody, Jee-ro C'ris'mus, how she'll squirt! Rip-te-hoo! And a hip, hip, holler, We'll lick hell for a half a dollar!" The post-office windows rattled and shivered in the sunshine. Horses along the line of march crouched, ducked sideways, and snorted in panic.
It was the old war song of the organization, product of a quarter-century of rip-roaring defiance, crystallized from the lyrics of the hard-fisted. They let the bass drums accent for them. "Here wec-come from old Sy-myrna Here wec-come with Hecly One; She's the prunes for a squirt, gol durn her We've come down for fight or fun. Shang, de-rango! We're the bo-kay, Don't giveadam for no one no way.
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