BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS

(A Dialogue of To-morrow.)

By P. G. Wodehouse

Punch, April 03, 1907

The scene is the barrack-room of the Tuneful Tenth. The War Office, after much vacillation, has at last made up its mind that singing shall become a recognised branch of the military curriculum and an inspection is to be held this very morning. Scattered about the room are warriors anxiously practising chest-notes. Others have retired to corners apart, to study that handy little brochure, “Songs Heard are Sweet” by “Major-General,” without which at this time no soldier moves.

Private Smith (meditatively). Do—re—mi—fa! Do—re—mi! Do—re—mi—fa—sol—la—si—do!

Private Brown. In good voice to-day, SMITHY?

Private Smith. A trifle roopy, I fear, BROWN. And you?

Private Brown. A little weak in the upper register. I wish this ’ere inspection was over, and that’s a fact.

Private Smith. Same here. He’s a terror, is the Colonel, if anything goes wrong. Had me on the carpet last time, and walked into me something horrid. Said if I couldn’t take a high C better than that, I’d better chuck the army and go into musical comedy.

Private Brown. Gave me cells once, he did,because I missed a beat in my duet with Sergeant NIGHTINGALE.

Private Walker (continuing an anecdote). So he says to me, “Here, you,” he says, “what do you think you’re doing, I wonder? Sounds like a man without a roof to his mouth calling Brussels-sprouts in a Whitechapel slum. You ain’t out with your barrow now,” he says. “So next time——

Private Webster. Who’s this bloke who’s inspecting us to-day anyhow? CRUSOE, or something.

Private Smith. CARUSO they called him. A very decent singer, so I ’ear, though not an Army man.

Private Brown. Wonderful how these civilians pick it up nowadays. Do—re—mi! Do—re—!

Private Webster. It’s this stomach-breathing what does me. “Don’t breathe with your chest, my man,” says the bloke. “Blimey,” I says to him, “what do you take me for? A bounding acrobat?”

Private Wilkinson. HAYDEN COFFIN and I——

Private Walker. Well, of course, I couldn’t say anything at the time, him being a Colonel and what not, but what I’d have liked to have said was that I’d forgotten more about tempo di waltz than he’d ever learned. I should have liked to have said to him, “Colonel DE REZSKE, you fancy you know a lot about voice production, I don’t think. You ain’t fit to be ‘confused noise without’ in a music-hall sketch.”

Private Smith. Si—do! Do! Do! La—si—do!

Private Brown. What I say is, I wish they’d let us choose our own songs. Stands to reason a chap knows what suits his own voice. You’ve ’eard me sing “What ho! What ho!! What Ho!!!” Well, I don’t want to seem to boast, but a man once told me it beat anything HARRY RANDALL could have done. But turn me out into a parade-ground, and ask me to give you “Tristan’s Farewell”——

Private Smith. Do!

Private Wilkinson. People who have heard me and KENNERELY RUMFORD——

Private Smith. Ah-ah-ah-ah-eh-ah-ah-ah-AH!

Private Gregson (suddenly). Oi’ll—er—sing thee saw-ongs ovarraby——

Private Webster. And the worst of it is you can’t hear yourself speak in here nowadays. Used to be a time when——But now, what with blokes doing their scales, and other blokes letting off upper G’s, and other blokes——

Private Smith. Ah-AH!

Private Webster (morosely). Wish they’d let me exchange into a parrot-’ouse!

[Scene closes.

 

~~~ The End ~~~