| Le strofe con cui lo stesso John Haralson rispose alla burla... |
CHAMBER LYE (JOHN HARALSON) | WET MORE! |
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John Haralson! John Haralson! | The women, bless their dear souls, |
You are a funny creature; | And everyone for war |
You've given to this cruel war | To 'soldier boys' they'll give them shoes, |
A new and useful feature. | Their stockings by the score |
You've let us know, while every man | They'll give their jewels all away, |
Is bound to be a fighter, | Their petticoats to boot |
The women, bless them, can be put | They'll have saltpetre, or they'll shout, |
To making lots of nitre. | In earnest phrase--'Wet more'! |
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John Haralson! John Haralson! | The women, were it not for them |
Where did you get the notion | Our country would be lost; |
Of sending barrels around our street | They charm the world, they nerve our hearts |
To fill them with that lotion? | To fight at every cost. |
We thought the women did enough | What care they how our powder's made? |
At sewing shirts and kissing; | They'll have it, or they'll bore |
But you have put the lovely dears | Through mines or beds in stables laid, |
To patriotic pissing. | And, straining, cry 'Wet more'! |
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John Haralson! John Haralson! | Women, yes they stoop to conquer |
Can't you suggest a neater | And keep their virtue pure; |
And faster method for our folks | It is no harm to kill a beast |
To make up our saltpetre? | With chamber lye I'm sure. |
Indeed, the thing is so very odd, | But powder we are bound to have, |
Gunpowder like and cranky, | And this they've sworn before; |
That when a lady lifts her skirt | And if the needful thing is scarce, |
She shoots a horrid Yankee! | They'll 'press' it and 'Wet more'! |