" TIPPERARY."
[To THE EDITOR OF TUE "SrEcuroa."1 SIR,—The traveller who heard everywhere in this country "I didn't raise my boy to be a soldier " can hardly have come as far as Portland, Maine. I never have heard that song. Were he with us now he would hear " Tipperary." Our neighbours sung it so loud the other evening that we could hear it in a thunder-storm. Last winter we heard it to the accompani- ment of rattling coal when our furnace was shaken down. This spring when ladders were against the house it came in with the smell of paint. It is sung at all sorts of entertain- ments. The tourists who flock here in summer sing it at their gatherings on the islands of our bay. The Roman Catholics, mostly of Irish blood, sang it at a reunion of their Cathedral parish. It was sung at a meeting of our City Government. Three tiny boys made their fortunes by singing it on the street one day, the crowd was so sympathetic. Some young men arrested for wakening the town pleaded they were " only singing ' Tipperary." It stands on our piano, but I cannot sing it. My voice breaks when I try. "It's a long way to Tipperary," to that final victory of the Allied arms which shall bless the world, including Germany—a long, hard way, and I, who tread it in spirit, am faint—" But my heart's right there."—I am, Sir, itc., EDITH L. DALTON. Portland, Maine, USA.
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