Sunday Dec. 17, 1916.

My Dear May,

Just about now you will be sitting down to dinner and Dad will say – “A week tomorrow is Xmas day: I wonder how Ewen and Mac will be spending it: will they have a turkey?” I don’t know if Ewen will or not – probably he will, but I will be the proud possessor of about 70 francs ($14) and, if things go as I expect, Bob Dunlop and I will have a good big feed up and general soirée. But next Xmas look out. I don’t need to describe my appetite but I’d like to have the material here to give a demonstration.

Had a very nice letter from Marion a few days ago. She said nil about herself though so I suppose she is staying at home yet. She ----
2 hours later. Brand (who came down from the bn with me plumped in on me as a little surprise and we had a good talk on how things were going in the 73. Some of our fellows (from our section) were in the con camp he was in last and gave him the news.

Several of the bn are in hospital – sick! The life up there is too tough for a fellow to stand it in the length of time we did – 8 weeks. It was a pleasant surprise I can tell you to see him for I imagined he was in Blighty. As it was, he nearly croaked with trench fever. ‘MacCammeron[?] played out but I guess they gave him a rest at the Cas. Clearing stn. and sent him back. They are in a cushy spot along the line now which reminds me of Johnny Sourbread. So Grigor Stuart has chucked the lucky seven eh! His battalion got a bad cutting up. Our batt got off a little easier than theirs.

They seem to be wanting to talk peace now. If the average tommy has his say they’d sign peace mighty soon – the strenuous life of a hero is not very alluring to most fellows. I’m getting fat out here though – would top the scales off at 145 in egg dress, so the food system isn’t affecting me much. I’m beginning to worry about my pass to England – how can I get enough to eat? Guess I’ll have to starve for a week and save food tickets for a good meal. BRAIN!

I regret that I could not send any Xmas cards to my friends but my absence from the bn meant that I couldn’t get any regimental ones. My wishes are in the right direction anyway, so what matters about cards?

If I send any letters home, say, for Aunt Ellen’s will you forward them? Put them in another envelope & ship ‘em on. I’m enclosing a popular song: maybe you’d like to read it. There’s that blasted bugle again – Cookhouse this time. Adios.

I’ve been to a real Presbyterian service – the second since I left Canada, you remember I was at one on Muswell Hill. It was good to hear an old scotch minister preach – he talked like Old Rev Mr MacKenzie (do you remember “the man who turned his back”?)

Will quit maintenaut we are not wearing kilts. Does that tell you about our dress?

Fondest love to all
Your Affectionate bro
Mac

132759
Cpl MacDonell

Sing me to sleep where bullets fall
Jack Johnston’s, coal-bones, shrapnel and all
Damp is my dugout and cold are my feet
With nothing but bully and biscuits to eat

Sing me to sleep in some old shed
With a dozen rat-holes around my head
Stretched upon my waterproof
Dodging the raindrops from the roof

Far far from Ypres I long to be
Where German snipers can’t pot at me
Think of me crouching where worms do creep
Expecting a coalbox to put me to sleep

While in reserve billets the week before last
A coalbox came over and broke a chaps fast
Consisting of cheese which soon walked away
Singing bon jour french which you know means good day

Sometimes we had tea as black as could be
It must have been made in the year 63
Or shipwrecked with Crusoe while sailing the deep
One pint was sufficient to put you to sleep

Far far from Ypres I long to be
The lights of old London I’d rather see
Think of me crouching where worms do creep
Expecting a coalbox to put me to sleep