| 'Twas with a heart of leaden woe
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| Poor Alphonze went to war;
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| And though it’s true he did not know
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| What he was fighting for
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| He grieved because unto Marie
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| He’d been but three weeks wed:
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| Tough luck! |
| Another three and he
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| Was listed with the dead
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| Marie was free if she would fain
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| Another spouse to choose;
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| But if she dared to wed again
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| Her pension she would lose
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| And so to mourn she did prefer
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| And widow to remain
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| Like many dames whose husbands were
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| Accounted with the slain
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| Yet she was made for motherhood
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| With hips and belly broad
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| And should have born a bonny brood
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| To render thanks to God
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| Ah! |
| If with valour Alphonze hadn’t
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| Fallen in the fray
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| Proud Marie would have been a glad
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| Great grandmother today
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| Yet maybe it is just as well
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| She has not bred her kind;
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| The ranks of unemployment swell
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| And flats are hard to find
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| For every year the human race
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| Richly we see increase
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| And wonder how they’ll find a place
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| Well, that’s the curse of Peace
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| So let us hail the gods of war
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| With joy and jubilation
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| Who favour foolish mankind for
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| They prune the population;
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| And let us thank the hungry guns
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| Forever belching doom
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| That slaughter bloodily our sons
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| To give us elbow room |