| Your gun is precise, and your bayonet’s nice
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| But the ice on the river won’t hold you
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| You’ll drown in a trice if you march on the ice
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| And lonely, cold death shall enfold you
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| Thus spoke his wife as he whetted his knife
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| Hoisting his pack, he said marching is my life
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| For when you’re marching no woman can scold you
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| We’re marching into Poland, then we’re marching off to Spain
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| With your bayonet sharpened
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| With your sharp bayonet you’ve no need to explain
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| For there’s no woman who’s ever controlled you
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| When you’re marching no woman
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| When you’re marching no woman can scold you
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| Oh, bitter her tears, she was younger in years
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| Wiser than he, so she told him
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| March off if you must, they will all come to dust
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| For only a coffin shall hold him
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| Off goes her man, he will write when he can
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| And women have wept since the world first began
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| And how the sound of her sorrow consoled him
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| With the moon on the shingles, I see white on the snow
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| Goodbye to your husband
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| So long to your husband, and then back home you’ll go
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| Where you will wait for the fate you foretold him
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| You will wait for the fate
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| You will wait for the fate you foretold him
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| It isn’t a joke, your life is like smoke
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| And someday you will wish you had tarried
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| How quickly you’ll fall, oh God help us all
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| A soldier should never get married
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| He tumbled the dice, and he soon paid the price
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| They gave him his orders to march on the ice
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| And then the water rose up all around him
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| And the water rose up and it drowned him
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| Through Poland, through Spain, his poor wife searched in vain
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| But he’d vanished: she never found him
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| He was gone and his wife
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| He was gone and his wife
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| He was gone and his wife never found him
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| Oh she never found him |