All round them, struggling in the dimness over ant-hill and ant-bear hole, were other baggage-laden forms, faithfully padding the hoof. The "wooded bunch," as became warriors were making light of their woes. From their ranks came an occasional laugh and snatches of ribald songs set to the opening bars of the "Soldier's March" in Fuast, accompanied by bang and boom of a tin pannikin and some hollow article (perhaps a bread box?). Drunk (bang!) last night, Drunk the night before (boom!) Drunk (bang!) last night, Never get drunk any more! (Boom!)
From the 1914 book Wild Honey: Stories of South Africa by Cynthia Stockley. Pg 308.
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