_Captain_. Immaculate stranger, hail! What lucky chance
Has brought you to this dirty bit of France?
_Staff O_. Not chance. A conscientious Brigadier
Has sent me hither.
_Captain_. And what seek you here?
_Staff_. I seek your Colonel.
_Captain_. He is up the line.
'Tis said the foe will soon explode a mine,
And we must be prepared should he attack.
_Staff O_. I think I will await his coming back.
_Captain_. Then chance to me at least has been most kind;
Come, let me lead you where a drink you'll find.
[_They enter dug-out and are seen relieving their thirst_.
_Chorus_.
Beyond the distant bower,
Where skirted men abide
And in an uncouth language
Their skirted children chide;
Beyond the land of sunshine,
Where never skies are blue,
There lives a silent people
Who know a thing or two.
All is not gold that glitters,
And _sirops_ are rather sad;
All is not Bass that's "bitters,"
And Gallic beer is bad;
But out of the misty regions
Where loom the mountains tall
There comes the drink of princes--
Whisky, the best of all.
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