Wanted—Recruits of the feminine gender!
To form a battalion our country to serve;—
Our masculine darlings are sadly too tender
In conscience and stamina, spirit and nerve;—
They're quite patriotic,
(On paper, you know),
And each thinks the other
Should certainly go!
But Tom has the asthma,
And Dick has a wife,
Whom he knows, should he fall,
Would be widowed for life!
"Shot-running" complains
That he's somewhat rheumatic;
Pilgarlic has headaches
That drive him quite frantic;
While Bob, with a countenance
Sagely reflective,
Says the army supplies
Are extremely defective:
That one who regards
His digestion, is mad
To go where the Worcestershire
Sauce is so bad!
These items I gathered last night at a ball,
Where these tender exotics were yawning,
Where they simpered and dawdled at Fashion's command,
And didn't go home until morning.
So Ladies, you're our last resort,
And let us have a general rally;
Put down the name of every Kate,
And Sue, and Margaret, and Sally.
We'll have a new recruiting hall,
And while you're gathering up your forces,
The men shall make your uniforms,
And pot the meats, and make the sauces!
So put them on your caps and frocks,
And you shall don your warlike suits;
We'll have three cheers, and then to close,
A "Tiger" for the new Recruits!