Well, It's Queer

Well, it's queer, no mistake,What a little will makeTwo nations spring up for a battle,—Like dogs for a bone,Or bulls overgrown,To be lords of a few simple cattle.

Sure, the world's full of riot,And squabblings unquiet,To blare on the height of its fashions.It fights at a tangent,For jealousy rankles,And men are the tools of their passions.

We look in our madness,And we say, half in sadness,"Who will shiver the idols we cherish?The greed of the peopleBecomes a high steeple,Which, in climbing, the nation will perish."

A thin voice speaks lowly—Slowly, ah! slowly,Thin as the owlet that screeches,We, when we drop frock,Chemises, and smock,And stalk forth in masculine breeches."