How at once (Edward Thomas) E1 Emaj7 How at once should I know, E2 E/A When stretched in the harvest blue B F#m I saw the swift's black bow, C#m7 That I would not have that view Another day Until next May Again it is due? The same year after year - But with the swift alone. With other things I but fear That they will be over and done Suddenly And I only see Them to know them gone. E1: x0799x Emaj7: x0244x E2: 0x245x E/A: x0245x B: x2444x F#m: 244222 C#m7: x46454

The Thrush By Edward Thomas Em Bm When Winter's ahead, Am D Em Bm Am Bm What can you read in November Em Bm That you read in April Am D Em Bm Am Bm When Winter's dead? I hear the thrush, and I see Him alone at the end of the lane Near the bare poplar's tip, Singing continuously. G D Is it more that you know Em D Than that, even as in April, C#m Em So in November, Bm7 Winter is gone that must go? Or is all your lore Not to call November November, And April April, And Winter Winter—no more? But I know the months all, And their sweet names, April, May and June and October, As you call and call I must remember What died into April And consider what will be born Of a fair November; C D And April I love for what G Em It was born of, and November Fmaj7 For what it will die in, Am7 What they are and what they are not, While you love what is kind, What you can sing in And love and forget in All that's ahead and behind.

Disabled By Wilfred Owen Fmaj7 G6 Am7 C He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark, Dm7 G Am7 And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey, Fmaj7 G6 Am7 C Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park Fmaj7 G6 Am Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn, Dm7 G Am7 Voices of play and pleasure after day, Fmaj7 G6 Am7 Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him. Bb Am G About this time Town used to swing so gay Fmaj7 G6 Am7 C When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees, Dm7 G Am7 And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,— Fmaj7 G6 Am7 C In the old times, before he threw away his knees. Dm7 G Am7 Now he will never feel again how slim Bb Am G Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands, Fmaj7 G6 Am All of them touch him like some queer disease. Fmaj7 G6 Am7 C There was an artist silly for his face, Dm7 G Am7 For it was younger than his youth, last year. Fmaj7 G6 Am7 C Now, he is old; his back will never brace; Dm7 G Am7 He's lost his colour very far from here, Fmaj7 G6 Am7 Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry, Fmaj7 G6 Am7 C And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race Bb Am D And leap of purple spurted from his thigh. F C G Dm7 One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg, Am G Fmaj7 After the matches carried shoulder-high. F G Am Dm7 It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg, Am7 G Fmaj7 He thought he'd better join. He wonders why. F C G Dm7 Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts. Am G Fmaj7 That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg, F G Am Dm7 Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts, Am7 G Fmaj7 He asked to join. He didn't have to beg; Eb Dm Bb Cm Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years. Eb Bb Cm Germans he scarcely thought of, all their guilt, Eb Dm Bb Cm And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears Bb Cm Gm Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts Eb Dm Bb Cm For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes; Eb Bb Cm And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears; Eb Dm Bb Cm Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits. Bb Cm D7 And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers. Gm Bb Cm D7 Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal. Gm Dm Gm Only a solemn man who brought him fruits Gm Bb Cm D7 Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul. Gm Bb C7 D7 Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes, Gm Dm Eb F And do what things the rules consider wise, Gm Bb C7 D7 And take whatever pity they may dole. Gm Dm Eb F Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes Gm Bb C7 D7 Passed from him to the strong men that were whole. Gm Bb c7 D7 How cold and late it is! Why don't they come Gm C D7 And put him into bed? Why don't they come?

Cholera Camp (Kipling) D Ddim D6 D We've got the cholerer in camp -- it's worse than forty fights; C G D We're dyin' in the wilderness the same as Isrulites. D Ddim D6 D It's before us, an' be'ind us, an' we cannot get away, C G D An' the doctor's just reported we've ten more to-day! D A Em G Oh, strike your camp an' go, the Bugle's callin', D A The Rains are fallin' -- Em G Bm The dead are bushed an' stoned to keep 'em safe below. G D Em The Band's a-doin' all she knows to cheer us; G D F#m The Chaplain's gone and prayed to Gawd to 'ear us -- Em To 'ear us -- D A Em O Lord, for it's a-killin' of us so! Since August, when it started, it's been stickin' to our tail, Though they've 'ad us out by marches an' they've 'ad us back by rail; But it runs as fast as troop trains, and we cannot get away; An' the sick-list to the Colonel makes ten more to-day. There ain't no fun in women nor there ain't no bite to drink; It's much too wet for shootin'; we can only march and think; An' at evenin', down the nullahs, we can 'ear the jackals say, "Get up, you rotten beggars, you've ten more to-day!" Bm Em Bm Em 'Twould make a monkey cough to see our way o' doin' things -- D A G A Lieutenants takin' companies an' captains takin' wings, Bm Em Bm Em An' Lances actin' Sergeants -- eight file to obey -- D A G A For we've lots o' quick promotion on ten deaths a day! Our Colonel's white an' twitterly -- 'e gets no sleep nor food, But mucks about in 'orspital where nothing does no good. 'E sends us 'eaps o' comforts, all bought from 'is pay -- But there aren't much comfort 'andy on ten deaths a day. Our Chaplain's got a banjo, an' a skinny mule 'e rides, An' the stuff 'e says an' sings us, Lord, it makes us split our sides! With 'is black coat-tails a-bobbin' to Ta-ra-ra Boom-der-ay! 'E's the proper kind o' padre for ten deaths a day. An' Father Victor 'elps 'im with our Roman Catholicks -- He knows an 'eap of Irish songs an' rummy conjurin' tricks; An' the two they works together when it comes to play or pray; So we keep the ball a-rollin' on ten deaths a day. We've got the cholerer in camp -- we've got it 'ot an' sweet. It ain't no Christmas dinner, but it's 'elped an' we must eat. We've gone beyond the funkin', 'cause we've found it doesn't pay, An' we're rockin' round the Districk on ten deaths a day! D A Em G Then strike your camp an' go, the Rains are fallin', D A The Bugle's callin'! Em G Bm The dead are bushed an' stoned to keep 'em safe below! G D Em An' them that do not like it they can lump it, G D Em An' them that cannot stand it they can jump it; G D F#m Em We've got to die somewhere -- some way -- some'ow -- D A Em We might as well begin to do it now! G D Em Then, Number One, let down the tent-pole slow, G D Em Knock out the pegs an' 'old the corners -- so! G D F#m Em Fold in the flies, furl up the ropes, an' stow! D A Em Oh, strike -- oh, strike your camp an' go! (Gawd 'elp us!) D=xx0232 Ddim=xx0132 D6=xx0032

The Dead Man Walking By Thomas Hardy D A They hail me as one living, Bm F#m But don't they know A Bm That I have died of late years, F#m Untombed although? I am but a shape that stands here, A pulseless mould, A pale past picture, screening Ashes gone cold. E D Not at a minute's warning, A Bm Not in a loud hour, C#m Bm For me ceased Time's enchantments F#m In hall and bower. There was no tragic transit, No catch of breath, When silent seasons inched me On to this death .... — A Troubadour-youth I rambled With Life for lyre, The beats of being raging In me like fire. But when I practised eyeing The goal of men, It iced me, and I perished A little then. D E F#m Bm When passed my friend, my kinsfolk, A G F#m Through the Last Door, D E F#m Bm And left me standing bleakly, A E Bm I died yet more; And when my Love's heart kindled In hate of me, Wherefore I knew not, died I One more degree. And if when I died fully I cannot say, And changed into the corpse-thing I am to-day, E D Yet is it that, though whiling A Bm The time somehow C#m Bm C#m Bm In walking, talking, smiling, Bm I live not now.

Dulce et Decorum Est (Wilfred Owen) E7 Am Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Esus4 E Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, F C Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, Dm7 Am7 Esus4 E And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of gas-shells dropping softly behind. F C Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling Dm7 E7 Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, C D6 But someone still was yelling out and stumbling C D7 And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.— C#m7 Bm7 Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, C#m7 Bm7 F#m7 As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. A C G A In all my dreams before my helpless sight, C G Bm7 He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,— My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. E7 = 0xx757, Am = x0x555 Esus4 = xx2455 E = 0xx454 F = x8756x

Loot Intro: Dm Am Dm F C C G F Am If you've ever stole a pheasant-egg be'ind the keeper's back, C G Dm If you've ever snigged the washin' from the line, C G F Am If you've ever crammed a gander in your bloomin' 'aversack, C F G You will understand this little song o' mine. F Em Dm G But the service rules are 'ard, an' from such we are debarred, C G Dm For the same with English morals does not suit. (Cornet: Toot! toot!) C G F Am W'y, they call a man a robber if 'e stuffs 'is marchin' clobber With the -- Dm Am (Chorus) Loo! loo! Lulu! lulu! Loo! loo! Loot! loot! loot! Dm Ow the loot! Bloomin' loot! F C Dm That's the thing to make the boys git up an' shoot! Dm It's the same with dogs an' men, Am If you'd make 'em come again Bb C Dm Am Clap 'em forward with a Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! Bb C Dm Am Bb C Dm (ff) Whoopee! Tear 'im, puppy! Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot! If you've knocked a native edgeways when 'e's thrustin' for your life, You must leave 'im very careful where 'e fell; An' may thank your stars an' gaiters if you didn't feel 'is knife That you ain't told off to bury 'im as well. Then the sweatin' Tommies wonder as they spade the beggars under Why lootin' should be entered as a crime; So if my song you'll 'ear, I will learn you plain an' clear C G Dm 'Ow to pay yourself for fightin' overtime. (Chorus) With the loot, . . . Now remember when you're 'acking round a gilded Burma god That 'is eyes is very often precious stones; An' if you treat a native to a dose o' cleanin'-rod 'E's like to show you everything 'e owns. When 'e won't prodooce no more, pour some water on the floor Where you 'ear it answer 'ollow to the boot (Cornet: Toot! toot!) -- When the ground begins to sink, shove your baynick down the chink, An' you're sure to touch the -- (Chorus) Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot! Ow the loot! . . . When from 'ouse to 'ouse you're 'unting, you must always work in pairs -- It 'alves the gain, but safer you will find -- For a single man gets bottled on them twisty-wisty stairs, An' a woman comes and clobs 'im from be'ind. When you've turned 'em inside out, an' it seems beyond a doubt As if there weren't enough to dust a flute (Cornet: Toot! toot!) -- Before you sling your 'ook, at the 'ousetops take a look, For it's underneath the tiles they 'ide the loot. (Chorus) Ow the loot! . . . You can mostly square a Sergint an' a Quartermaster too, If you only take the proper way to go; I could never keep my pickin's, but I've learned you all I knew -- An' don't you never say I told you so. An' now I'll bid good-bye, for I'm gettin' rather dry, An' I see another tunin' up to toot (Cornet: Toot! toot!) -- So 'ere's good-luck to those that wears the Widow's clo'es, An' the Devil send 'em all they want o' loot! (Chorus) Yes, the loot, Bloomin' loot! In the tunic an' the mess-tin an' the boot! It's the same with dogs an' men, If you'd make 'em come again (fff) Whoop 'em forward with a Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot! Heeya! Sick 'im, puppy! Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot!

Exposure by Wilfred Owen A4 A4/G# Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knive us… F#dim7 E6 Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent… F#dim7 E6 Low, drooping flares confuse our memories of the salient… B7 E Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous, But nothing happens. Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire, Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles. Northward, incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles, Far off, like a dull rumour of some other war. What are we doing here? A B C G The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow… Em C Em B7 We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy. C G Am Em Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army Dm Am Dm Am Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of grey, B7 But nothing happens. Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence. Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow, With sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause, and renew, We watch them wandering up and down the wind’s nonchalance, But nothing happens. Pale flakes with fingering stealth come feeling for our faces – We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed, Deep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed, Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses. Is it that we are dying? Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires, glozed With crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there; For hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs; Shutters and doors, all closed: on us the doors are closed, – We turn back to our dying. Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn; Nor ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit. For God’s invincible spring our love is made afraid; Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born, For love of God seems dying. Tonight, His frost will fasten on this mud and us, Shrivelling many hands, puckering foreheads crisp. The burying party, picks and shovels in the shaking grasp, Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice, But nothing happens. A4: xx76x40 A4/G#: xx66x40 F#dim7: xx4240 E6: xx2120 B7: x2120x E: 022100

Haymaking By Edward Thomas Em D After night’s thunder far away had rolled Am Em The fiery day had a kernel sweet of cold, Em D And in the perfect blue the clouds uncurled, Am B7 Like the first gods before they made the world C G And misery, swimming the stormless sea Am Em In beauty and in divine gaiety. C G The smooth white empty road was lightly strewn Am B7 With leaves—the holly’s Autumn falls in June— F#m C#m And fir cones standing stiff up in the heat. D E The mill-foot water tumbled white and lit Em Bm With tossing crystals, happier than any crowd A B7 Of children pouring out of school aloud. And in the little thickets where a sleeper For ever might lie lost, the nettle-creeper And garden warbler sang unceasingly; While over them shrill shrieked in his fierce glee The swift with wings and tail as sharp and narrow As if the bow had flown off with the arrow. Only the scent of woodbine and hay new-mown Travelled the road. In the field sloping down, Park-like, to where its willows showed the brook, Haymakers rested. The tosser lay forsook Out in the sun; and the long waggon stood Without its team, it seemed it never would Move from the shadow of that single yew. The team, as still, until their task was due, Beside the labourers enjoyed the shade That three squat oaks mid-field together made Upon a circle of grass and weed uncut, And on the hollow, once a chalk-pit, but Now brimmed with nut and elder-flower so clean. The men leaned on their rakes, about to begin, But still. And all were silent. All was old, This morning time, with a great age untold, Older than Clare and Cobbett, Morland and Crome, Than, at the field’s far edge, the farmer’s home, A white house crouched at the foot of a great tree. Under the heavens that know not what years be The men, the beasts, the trees, the implements Uttered even what they will in times far hence— All of us gone out of the reach of change— Immortal in a picture of an old grange.

The Walrus and The Carpenter Lewis Carroll (from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872) Em D Am Em The sun was shining on the sea, Em D Em Shining with all his might: Em D C Em He did his very best to make C D B The billows smooth and bright-- Am Em And this was odd, because it was C D Em The middle of the night. Am Em The moon was shining sulkily, C D Em Because she thought the sun D C Em Am Had got no business to be there G B7 After the day was done-- Em D C Em "It's very rude of him," she said, C D Em "To come and spoil the fun!" B Em The sea was wet as wet could be, B Em The sands were dry as dry. D Am You could not see a cloud, because G B7 No cloud was in the sky: Em D C Em No birds were flying overhead-- C D Em There were no birds to fly. The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: "If this were only cleared away," They said, "it would be grand!" "If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year. Do you suppose," the Walrus said, "That they could get it clear?" "I doubt it," said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear. "O Oysters, come and walk with us!" The Walrus did beseech. "A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach: We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each." The eldest Oyster looked at him, But never a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head-- Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed. But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat-- And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn't any feet. Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more-- All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore. The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row. "The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things: Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax-- Of cabbages--and kings-- And why the sea is boiling hot-- And whether pigs have wings." "But wait a bit," the Oysters cried, "Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!" "No hurry!" said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that. "A loaf of bread," the Walrus said, "Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed-- Now if you're ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed." "But not on us!" the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. "After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!" "The night is fine," the Walrus said. "Do you admire the view? "It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!" The Carpenter said nothing but "Cut us another slice: I wish you were not quite so deaf-- I've had to ask you twice!" "It seems a shame," the Walrus said, "To play them such a trick, After we've brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!" The Carpenter said nothing but "The butter's spread too thick!" "I weep for you," the Walrus said: "I deeply sympathize." With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes. "O Oysters," said the Carpenter, "You've had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?' But answer came there none-- And this was scarcely odd, because They'd eaten every one.

The Young British Soldier [riff] WHEN the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East 'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast, An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier. Cm Gm Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, Cm D7 Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, Gm Cm Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, Bb D7 So-oldier of the Queen! Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day, You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay, An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may: A soldier what's fit for a soldier. Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . . Gm Dm Cm Gm First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts, Gm F Bb D7 For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts - Gm Dm Bb Cm Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts - Gm F Gm An' it's bad for the young British soldier. Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . . When the cholera comes - as it will past a doubt - Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout, For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out, An' it crumples the young British soldier. Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . . But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead: You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said: If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead, An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier. Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . . If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind, Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind; Be handy and civil, and then you will find That it's beer for the young British soldier. Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . . Now, if you must marry, take care she is old - A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told, For beauty won't help if your rations is cold, Nor love ain't enough for a soldier. 'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . . If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath To shoot when you catch 'em - you'll swing, on my oath! - Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both, An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier. Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . . When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck, Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck, Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck And march to your front like a soldier. Front, front, front like a soldier . . . When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch, Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch; She's human as you are - you treat her as sich, An' she'll fight for the young British soldier. Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . . When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine, The guns o' the enemy wheel into line, Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine, For noise never startles the soldier. Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . . If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white, Remember it's ruin to run from a fight: So take open order, lie down, and sit tight, And wait for supports like a soldier. Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . . When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains, And the women come out to cut up what remains, Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains An' go to your Gawd like a soldier. Go, go, go like a soldier, Go, go, go like a soldier, Go, go, go like a soldier, So-oldier of the Queen! Riff: x310xx - xx32xxx - x310xx - x1334x - x1333x [Cm - F Cm - Bbsus4 - Bb]

The Female of the Species (Rudyard Kipling) When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride, He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside. But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail. For the female of the species is more deadly than the male. When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man, He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can. But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail. For the female of the species is more deadly than the male. When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws, They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws. 'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale. For the female of the species is more deadly than the male. Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say, For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away; But when hunter meets with husband, each confirms the other's tale -- The female of the species is more deadly than the male. Man, a bear in most relations-worm and savage otherwise, -- Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise. Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low, To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe. Mirth obscene diverts his anger --- Doubt and Pity oft perplex Him in dealing with an issue -- to the scandal of The Sex! But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same; And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail, The female of the species must be deadlier than the male. She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast May not deal in doubt or pity -- must not swerve for fact or jest. These be purely male diversions -- not in these her honour dwells. She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else. She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate. And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same. She is wedded to convictions -- in default of grosser ties; Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies! -- He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild, Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child. Unprovoked and awful charges -- even so the she-bear fights, Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons -- even so the cobra bites, Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw And the victim writhes in anguish -- like the Jesuit with the squaw! So it cames that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands To some God of Abstract Justice -- which no woman understands. And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him Must command but may not govern -- shall enthral but not enslave him. And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail, That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male. Chords: Verses 1 - 4, 7, 10, 13 G Bm Am D G C D Em G D Am Em G C D C G C D C Verses 5,8,11 D G C D Bm Em C D G C D Em Am Em C D Verses 6,9,12 Em C G D Em D Am Em Em C G D Am C G D