TENT MUSIC
Itis not often that Thomas Atkins of any nationality wears his heart upon his sleeve, and it is quite certain that the British Tommy but rarely does so, or his confrere of the Canadian Contingent. Perhaps he best shows his thoughts and relieves his feelings in song.
Salisbury Plains must have seen and heard many things, yet few stranger sounds can have been heard there than the chants which rise from dimly-lighted canvas walls, when night has shrouded the earth, and the stars gleam palely through the mist. It is the habit of the Canadian Mr. Atkins, ere he prepares himself for rest, to set his throat a-throbbing to many a tune both new and old. The result is not invariably musical—sometimes far from it, but it is a species of sound the male creature produces either to show his “gladness or his sadness,” and by means of which he relievesa heavy heart, or indicates that in his humble opinion “all’s well with the world.” On every side, from almost every tent, there is harmony, melody, trio, quartette, chorus, or—noise! It is a strange mixture of thoughts and things, a peculiar vocal photograph of the men of the Maple, now admirable, now discordant, here ribald, there rather tinged with the pathetic.
No programme-maker in his wildest moments, in the throes of the most conflicting emotions, could begin to evolve such a varied, such a startling programme as may be heard in the space of a short half-hour under canvas—in a rain-sodden, comfortless tent—anywhere on Salisbury Plains. It does not matter who begins it; some one is “feeling good,” and he lifts up his voice to declaim that “You made me love you; I didn’t want to do it!” The rest join in, here a tenor, there a bass or a baritone, and the impromptu concert has begun.
Never have the writers of songs, the composers of music, grave and gay, come more into their own than among the incorrigibly cheerful warriors of the Plains. The relativemerits of composers are not discussed. They are all good enough for Jock Canuck as long as there is that nameless something in the song or the music which appeals to him. It is curious that we who hope to slay, and expect to be slain—many of us—should sing with preference of Killarney’s lakes and fells, “Sunnybrook Farm,” “Silver Threads Among the Gold,” rather than some War Chant or Patriotic Ode, something visionary of battle-fields, guns, the crash of shells. Is not this alone sufficient to show that beneath his tunic, and in spite of his martial spirit, Tommy “has a heart,” and a very warm one?
Picture to yourself a tent with grimy, sodden sides, lighted by three or four guttering candle-ends, stuck wherever space or ingenuity permits. An atmosphere tobacco laden, but not stuffy, rifles piled round the tent-pole, haversacks, “dunnage” bags, blankets, and oil-sheets spread about, and their owners, some of them lying on the floor wrapped in blankets, some seated, one or two perhaps reading or writing in cramped positions, yet quite content. Yonder is a lusty Yorkshireman, big, blue-eyed, and fair, whofor some reason best known to himselfwillcall himself an Irishman. We know him as “the man with three voices,” for he has a rich, tuneful, though uncultivated tenor, a wonderful falsetto, and a good alto. His tricks are remarkable, but his ear is fine. He loves to lie sprawled on his great back, and lift up his voice to the skies. All the words of half the old and new songs of two peoples, British and American, he has committed to memory. He is our “leading man,” a shining light in the concert firmament. We have heard and helped him to sing in the course of one crowded period of thirty minutes the following varied programme: “Tipperary,” “Silver Threads Among the Gold,” “My Old Kentucky Home,” “Fight the Good Fight,” “A Wee Deoch an’ Doris,” “When the Midnight Choochoo Leaves for Alabam,” “The Maple Leaf,” “Cock Robin,” “Get Out and Get Under,” “Where is My Wandering Boy To-Night,” “Nearer, My God, to Thee,” and “I Stand in a Land of Roses, though I Dream of a Land of Snow.” But there is one song we never sing, “Home, Sweet Home.” Home is too sacred a subject with us; it touches thedeeper, aye, the deepest, chords, and we dare not risk it, exiles that we are.
Very often there are strange paradoxes in the words we sing, when compared with reality.... “I stand in a land of roses!” Well, not exactly, although Salisbury Plains in the summer time are, like the curate’s egg, “good in parts.” But the following line is true enough of many of us. We do “dream of a land of snow”; of the land, and those far, far away in it. Sometimes we sing “rag-time melodee,” but that is onlypour passer le temps. There is something which prompts us to other songs, and to sacred music. It often happens that in our tent there are three or four men with voices above the average who take a real delight in singing. One of the most beautiful things of the kind the writer has ever heard was a quartette’s singing of “Nearer, My God, to Thee.” Fine, well-trained voices they possessed, blending truly and harmoniously, which rang out almost triumphal in the frosty night. They sang it once, and then again, and as the last notes died away the bugles sounded the “Last Post.”
Taa-Taa, Taa-Taa, Ta-ta-ti-ti-ti-ti-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta. Ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ta-ta-ta-ta-taa, Taa-Taa, Taa-Taa, Taaa, Tiii!
Verily, even under canvas musichathcharms to soothe the savage breast.