There was a curious note of self-pity in many of the sentimental songs, and men gloated over the love of home. The love of mother became warmer in imagination (_Lordy, lordy lordy, how I love her!_); the tenderness of wife and sweetheart became desired in a way which could only be expressed in songs--and in letters, those most precious of all tokens of the war, the letters which men sent from the front to those who loved them. The little English soldier sang his very heart out asking his Lizzie to "keep the kettle boiling," asking anyone and everyone to Keep the home fires burning Till the boys come home! Even so, he would not allow himself to get down-hearted or to remain for long in a sentimental mood. The humorous inventive vein came to his assistance. He did not possess ready-made chansonettes of the French type. The music-hall had not provided them, but he straightway began to invent them to satisfy the need. So sprang into being _Mademoiselle from Armenteers_ which was reputed to have fifty thousand verses--anyone could invent a verse at any moment. So was born _Roll on, my Three_, that soldiers' litany and chorus, _The one-eyed Riley_, and many another burlesque. Then every well-known hymn and popular song had its war parody expressing the soldier's mind in lighter vein---- Some of the parodies of popular songs improved on the originals. Thus-- I wore a tunic, an old khaki tunic, But you wore civilian clothes. Whilst we were in the trenches You were mashing all the wenches, What a blessing no one knows! We fought at Loos whilst you scoffed the booze. on the basis of-- I wore a tulip, a bright yellow tulip, But you wore a red red rose. was extremely diverting, as was I've lost my oil-bottle and pull-through, I've lost my four by two. on the basis of "Love's beautiful garden." Endless were these songs and parodies now fast receding into limbo. Where so much was ugly and of the burlesque there was also much that was true and simple and direct, from the heart. Perhaps the most popular song in some regiments was, after all, "Mary." There was no parody of "Mary," and one was always hearing or singing-- The sweetest blossom on the tree Cannot compare with Ma ... ry! The men lifted the roofs of the taverns with their songs. The war which increased life's suffering tenfold, increased life's music tenfold also. So the winter was sung through, a winter of rain and snow, with low skies, with mists, mist on land and sea and in the eyes and in the mind, the melancholy interim of 1915-16, where no one understood anything except that there was suffering. Meanwhile however the munition-makers on the home fronts went on manufacturing the stuff of death in ever-increasing appalling vast quantities.