THE WAR CRY.
(Dedicated (without permission) to the Pioneer Club)
Rouse ye, ye women, and flock to your banners!
War is declared on the enemy, Man!
If we can't teach him to better his manners,
We'll copy the creature as close as we can!
No longer the heel of the tyrant shall grind us.
Rouse ye and rally! The despot defy!
And the false craven shall tremble to find us
Resolved to a woman to do or to die.
Chorus.
Then hey! for the latchkey, sweet liberty's symbol!
Greet it, ye girls, with your lustiest cheer!
Away with the scissors! Away with the thimble!
And hey nonny no for the gay Pioneer!
Why should we writhe on a clumsy side-saddle
Designed on a most diabolical plan?
Women! submit ye no longer! Ride straddle,
And jump on the corns of your enemy, Man!
Storm the iniquitous haunts of his pleasure,
Leave him to nurse the dear babes when they fret,
Dine at St. James' in luxurious leisure,
And woo the delights of the sweet cigarette!
Look to your latchkeys! The whole situation
Upon the possession of these will depend.
Use them, ye women, without hesitation,
And dine when ye will with a gentleman friend.
Man's a concoction of sin and of knavery—
Women of India, China, Japan!
Rouse ye, and end this inglorious slavery!
Down with the tyrant! Down, down with the Man!