CHAPTER VIIIA DAY IN SALONIQUE

There are many famous highways,Many famous streets in history:Watling Street and Piccadilly,Sidney Street and Champs-Elysée,And the Appian Way and Wall Street,But the Lembet Road will everTake a place in fame beside them,While a single British soldierLives to tell of Salonica.Mud and slush and bumps in winter,Bumps and dust and flies in summer.Still, it’s filled out since we found it,Since we got to work upon it,As a skinny baby fills outAfter being fed on Benger’s.There it was that TiadathaLearnt the gentle art of wanglingLifts in cars and motor lorriesDown to Piccadilly Circus,In the days before the BulgarStrolled into the Struma Valley.He would spend the morning shopping,Buying sundry brands of whisky(Mostly made by local effort)At the most prodigious prices;In his hob-nailed boots he slitheredUp and down Rue Venizelos,Buying mullet by the oke,Buying tangerines and chestnuts.Shopkeepers would see him coming,Cry with glee, “Here’s Tiadatha,Plenty money, Tiadatha.”After lunch at the Olympus(Prices higher than the mountain),Off he sped to Baths of Botton,Tasted once again the pleasuresOf a bath you can lie down in.Though the soap was green and hardy,Though the towels weren’t all they might be,Even though the place was dirty,It was better than a bucket.Good and hot he made the water,Lay and splashed for half-an-hour,Whistling snatches of a rag-time.Then of course he tea’d at Floca’sCosmopolitan as Shepheard’s,Ever full to overflowing.In those days there came to Floca’sOfficers of many armies,Officers of many navies,Mufti-wallahs of all nations.Came the Greeks (with swords beside them),Gold and scarlet as a sunset,Came the Italians with their grey cloaks,French with caps like skies in summer,Came the Serbs and came the Russians,Came the English, Jocks and Irish,Admirals, snotties and Commanders,Colonels, Generals and Captains,And a few bold bad LieutenantsPoodle-faking with some sisters.Here they met and fed together,Drank their mastic, tea or absinthe,Talked their own peculiar language,Twenty tongues and yet one language:When they wanted theiraddition,Wanted their perspiring waiter,They just clapped their hands together,Loudly clapped their hands together,Two or three or even four times.And in good time came the waiter,Dodging round the crowded tables,As a cycling newsboy dodgesIn and out of London traffic,Added tip into the total,Just for fear they should forget it.After tea a bit more shopping,And perhaps a Picture Palace(Fifteen suicides and murdersIn the space of half-an-hour).Then he dined at Bastasini’s,Dined at the expensive Roma,With his very best pal Percy;Drank some pretty nasty bubbly,Sat and watched the other dinersWrestling with their macaroni,Watched a livery Greek major(More and more and more impatientFor the omelette he had ordered)Break a plate upon the table,Dash one on the floor in pieces,Then another and another,Till the room was in an uproar,Till he’d got the whole staff round him.“Stout old heart,” cheered Tiadatha,“Go it, Steve,” cheered Tiadatha,“That’s the only way to do itIf you’re really in a hurry.”After dinner off they salliedTo the Odéon or Tour Blanche(Where you never paid but pushed past),Crowded in the nearest stage-box,Or if it was locked climbed over.Had you asked my TiadathaIf the show was very thrilling,If the lovely ladies sang himHaunting songs of joy and sadness,He’d have told you in a minuteThat he hadn’t time to notice.He was always much too busyShouting “Un, deux, trois” with Frenchmen,Drinking lager beer with Serbians,Swapping caps with ice-cream merchants,Helping several rowdy RusskisTo lasso the band conductor,Having special little EntentesWith a boxful of the Navy;Much too busy ragging Bertha,Andrée, Denisette or Dolly,Much too busy dodging Zizi,When she clamoured “Champagne cider.”And when A.P.M.s came prowling,He would disappear sedatelyWith a beer mug in one pocket,And a tin tray in the other,Finish up a noisy eveningWith a game of “Ring-a-roses,”Then jolt campwards in a gharryTo valise and well-earned slumber.Do not fear my TiadathaGently sliding to Avernus,Losing all the pleasant mannersTaught him by his lady mother,Do not fear one day to find himClapping hands at Rumpelmeyer’sFor another chocolate éclair,Breaking plates and things at Prince’sWhen his lunch is long in coming,Looting beer mugs at the PalaceOr lassoing the conductor—He must do as Salonique does,For there’s nothing else to do there.Some there are find SalonicaDirty, dull and evil-smelling.Bored to tears, they sometimes ask youWhat on earth there is to do there.But I make reply and tell themSalonica’s what you make it.London can be just as boringAs a dug-out in the trenches,Or a dug-out in the trenchesCan be merrier than Murray’s—If you’ve got the right coves in it,Got a little drop of whisky,Other climes and other morals:When you go to Salonica,Be an idiot for an evening,Make a noise with Tiadatha,Drink your beer and pinch the glasses,Raid the band and rag the fairies,Dance a fox-trot with a Frenchman,Get a little mild amusementEven out of Salonica.

There are many famous highways,

Many famous streets in history:

Watling Street and Piccadilly,

Sidney Street and Champs-Elysée,

And the Appian Way and Wall Street,

But the Lembet Road will ever

Take a place in fame beside them,

While a single British soldier

Lives to tell of Salonica.

Mud and slush and bumps in winter,

Bumps and dust and flies in summer.

Still, it’s filled out since we found it,

Since we got to work upon it,

As a skinny baby fills out

After being fed on Benger’s.

There it was that TiadathaLearnt the gentle art of wanglingLifts in cars and motor lorriesDown to Piccadilly Circus,In the days before the BulgarStrolled into the Struma Valley.

There it was that Tiadatha

Learnt the gentle art of wangling

Lifts in cars and motor lorries

Down to Piccadilly Circus,

In the days before the Bulgar

Strolled into the Struma Valley.

He would spend the morning shopping,Buying sundry brands of whisky(Mostly made by local effort)At the most prodigious prices;In his hob-nailed boots he slitheredUp and down Rue Venizelos,Buying mullet by the oke,Buying tangerines and chestnuts.Shopkeepers would see him coming,Cry with glee, “Here’s Tiadatha,Plenty money, Tiadatha.”

He would spend the morning shopping,

Buying sundry brands of whisky

(Mostly made by local effort)

At the most prodigious prices;

In his hob-nailed boots he slithered

Up and down Rue Venizelos,

Buying mullet by the oke,

Buying tangerines and chestnuts.

Shopkeepers would see him coming,

Cry with glee, “Here’s Tiadatha,

Plenty money, Tiadatha.”

After lunch at the Olympus(Prices higher than the mountain),Off he sped to Baths of Botton,Tasted once again the pleasuresOf a bath you can lie down in.Though the soap was green and hardy,Though the towels weren’t all they might be,Even though the place was dirty,It was better than a bucket.Good and hot he made the water,Lay and splashed for half-an-hour,Whistling snatches of a rag-time.

After lunch at the Olympus

(Prices higher than the mountain),

Off he sped to Baths of Botton,

Tasted once again the pleasures

Of a bath you can lie down in.

Though the soap was green and hardy,

Though the towels weren’t all they might be,

Even though the place was dirty,

It was better than a bucket.

Good and hot he made the water,

Lay and splashed for half-an-hour,

Whistling snatches of a rag-time.

Then of course he tea’d at Floca’sCosmopolitan as Shepheard’s,Ever full to overflowing.In those days there came to Floca’sOfficers of many armies,Officers of many navies,Mufti-wallahs of all nations.Came the Greeks (with swords beside them),Gold and scarlet as a sunset,Came the Italians with their grey cloaks,French with caps like skies in summer,Came the Serbs and came the Russians,Came the English, Jocks and Irish,Admirals, snotties and Commanders,Colonels, Generals and Captains,And a few bold bad LieutenantsPoodle-faking with some sisters.Here they met and fed together,Drank their mastic, tea or absinthe,Talked their own peculiar language,Twenty tongues and yet one language:When they wanted theiraddition,Wanted their perspiring waiter,They just clapped their hands together,Loudly clapped their hands together,Two or three or even four times.And in good time came the waiter,Dodging round the crowded tables,As a cycling newsboy dodgesIn and out of London traffic,Added tip into the total,Just for fear they should forget it.

Then of course he tea’d at Floca’s

Cosmopolitan as Shepheard’s,

Ever full to overflowing.

In those days there came to Floca’s

Officers of many armies,

Officers of many navies,

Mufti-wallahs of all nations.

Came the Greeks (with swords beside them),

Gold and scarlet as a sunset,

Came the Italians with their grey cloaks,

French with caps like skies in summer,

Came the Serbs and came the Russians,

Came the English, Jocks and Irish,

Admirals, snotties and Commanders,

Colonels, Generals and Captains,

And a few bold bad Lieutenants

Poodle-faking with some sisters.

Here they met and fed together,

Drank their mastic, tea or absinthe,

Talked their own peculiar language,

Twenty tongues and yet one language:

When they wanted theiraddition,

Wanted their perspiring waiter,

They just clapped their hands together,

Loudly clapped their hands together,

Two or three or even four times.

And in good time came the waiter,

Dodging round the crowded tables,

As a cycling newsboy dodges

In and out of London traffic,

Added tip into the total,

Just for fear they should forget it.

After tea a bit more shopping,And perhaps a Picture Palace(Fifteen suicides and murdersIn the space of half-an-hour).Then he dined at Bastasini’s,Dined at the expensive Roma,With his very best pal Percy;Drank some pretty nasty bubbly,Sat and watched the other dinersWrestling with their macaroni,Watched a livery Greek major(More and more and more impatientFor the omelette he had ordered)Break a plate upon the table,Dash one on the floor in pieces,Then another and another,Till the room was in an uproar,Till he’d got the whole staff round him.“Stout old heart,” cheered Tiadatha,“Go it, Steve,” cheered Tiadatha,“That’s the only way to do itIf you’re really in a hurry.”

After tea a bit more shopping,

And perhaps a Picture Palace

(Fifteen suicides and murders

In the space of half-an-hour).

Then he dined at Bastasini’s,

Dined at the expensive Roma,

With his very best pal Percy;

Drank some pretty nasty bubbly,

Sat and watched the other diners

Wrestling with their macaroni,

Watched a livery Greek major

(More and more and more impatient

For the omelette he had ordered)

Break a plate upon the table,

Dash one on the floor in pieces,

Then another and another,

Till the room was in an uproar,

Till he’d got the whole staff round him.

“Stout old heart,” cheered Tiadatha,

“Go it, Steve,” cheered Tiadatha,

“That’s the only way to do it

If you’re really in a hurry.”

After dinner off they salliedTo the Odéon or Tour Blanche(Where you never paid but pushed past),Crowded in the nearest stage-box,Or if it was locked climbed over.

After dinner off they sallied

To the Odéon or Tour Blanche

(Where you never paid but pushed past),

Crowded in the nearest stage-box,

Or if it was locked climbed over.

Had you asked my TiadathaIf the show was very thrilling,If the lovely ladies sang himHaunting songs of joy and sadness,He’d have told you in a minuteThat he hadn’t time to notice.He was always much too busyShouting “Un, deux, trois” with Frenchmen,Drinking lager beer with Serbians,Swapping caps with ice-cream merchants,Helping several rowdy RusskisTo lasso the band conductor,Having special little EntentesWith a boxful of the Navy;Much too busy ragging Bertha,Andrée, Denisette or Dolly,Much too busy dodging Zizi,When she clamoured “Champagne cider.”And when A.P.M.s came prowling,He would disappear sedatelyWith a beer mug in one pocket,And a tin tray in the other,Finish up a noisy eveningWith a game of “Ring-a-roses,”Then jolt campwards in a gharryTo valise and well-earned slumber.Do not fear my TiadathaGently sliding to Avernus,Losing all the pleasant mannersTaught him by his lady mother,Do not fear one day to find himClapping hands at Rumpelmeyer’sFor another chocolate éclair,Breaking plates and things at Prince’sWhen his lunch is long in coming,Looting beer mugs at the PalaceOr lassoing the conductor—He must do as Salonique does,For there’s nothing else to do there.

Had you asked my Tiadatha

If the show was very thrilling,

If the lovely ladies sang him

Haunting songs of joy and sadness,

He’d have told you in a minute

That he hadn’t time to notice.

He was always much too busy

Shouting “Un, deux, trois” with Frenchmen,

Drinking lager beer with Serbians,

Swapping caps with ice-cream merchants,

Helping several rowdy Russkis

To lasso the band conductor,

Having special little Ententes

With a boxful of the Navy;

Much too busy ragging Bertha,

Andrée, Denisette or Dolly,

Much too busy dodging Zizi,

When she clamoured “Champagne cider.”

And when A.P.M.s came prowling,

He would disappear sedately

With a beer mug in one pocket,

And a tin tray in the other,

Finish up a noisy evening

With a game of “Ring-a-roses,”

Then jolt campwards in a gharry

To valise and well-earned slumber.

Do not fear my Tiadatha

Gently sliding to Avernus,

Losing all the pleasant manners

Taught him by his lady mother,

Do not fear one day to find him

Clapping hands at Rumpelmeyer’s

For another chocolate éclair,

Breaking plates and things at Prince’s

When his lunch is long in coming,

Looting beer mugs at the Palace

Or lassoing the conductor—

He must do as Salonique does,

For there’s nothing else to do there.

Some there are find SalonicaDirty, dull and evil-smelling.Bored to tears, they sometimes ask youWhat on earth there is to do there.But I make reply and tell themSalonica’s what you make it.London can be just as boringAs a dug-out in the trenches,Or a dug-out in the trenchesCan be merrier than Murray’s—If you’ve got the right coves in it,Got a little drop of whisky,Other climes and other morals:When you go to Salonica,Be an idiot for an evening,Make a noise with Tiadatha,Drink your beer and pinch the glasses,Raid the band and rag the fairies,Dance a fox-trot with a Frenchman,Get a little mild amusementEven out of Salonica.

Some there are find Salonica

Dirty, dull and evil-smelling.

Bored to tears, they sometimes ask you

What on earth there is to do there.

But I make reply and tell them

Salonica’s what you make it.

London can be just as boring

As a dug-out in the trenches,

Or a dug-out in the trenches

Can be merrier than Murray’s—

If you’ve got the right coves in it,

Got a little drop of whisky,

Other climes and other morals:

When you go to Salonica,

Be an idiot for an evening,

Make a noise with Tiadatha,

Drink your beer and pinch the glasses,

Raid the band and rag the fairies,

Dance a fox-trot with a Frenchman,

Get a little mild amusement

Even out of Salonica.

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