'Twas with a heart of leaden woe
Poor Alphonze went to war;
And though it's true he did not know
What he was fighting for,
He grieved because unto Marie
He'd been but three weeks wed:
Tough luck! Another three and he
Was listed with the dead.
Marie was free if she would fain
Another spouse to choose;
But if she dared to wed again
Her pension she would lose.
And so to mourn she did prefer,
And widow to remain,
Like many dames whose husbands were
Accounted with the slain.
Yet she was made for motherhood
With hips and belly broad,
And should have born a bonny brood
To render thanks to God.
Ah! If with valour Alphonze hadn't
Fallen in the fray,
Proud Marie would have been a glad
Great grandmother today.
Yet maybe it is just as well
She has not bred her kind;
The ranks of unemployment swell,
And flats are hard to find.
For every year the human race
Richly we see increase,
And wonder how they'll find a place ...
Well, that's the curse of Peace.
So let us hail the gods of war
With joy and jubilation,
Who favour foolish mankind for
They prune the population;
And let us thank the hungry guns
Forever belching doom,
That slaughter bloodily our sons
To give us elbow room.
Poor Alphonze went to war;
And though it's true he did not know
What he was fighting for,
He grieved because unto Marie
He'd been but three weeks wed:
Tough luck! Another three and he
Was listed with the dead.
Marie was free if she would fain
Another spouse to choose;
But if she dared to wed again
Her pension she would lose.
And so to mourn she did prefer,
And widow to remain,
Like many dames whose husbands were
Accounted with the slain.
Yet she was made for motherhood
With hips and belly broad,
And should have born a bonny brood
To render thanks to God.
Ah! If with valour Alphonze hadn't
Fallen in the fray,
Proud Marie would have been a glad
Great grandmother today.
Yet maybe it is just as well
She has not bred her kind;
The ranks of unemployment swell,
And flats are hard to find.
For every year the human race
Richly we see increase,
And wonder how they'll find a place ...
Well, that's the curse of Peace.
So let us hail the gods of war
With joy and jubilation,
Who favour foolish mankind for
They prune the population;
And let us thank the hungry guns
Forever belching doom,
That slaughter bloodily our sons
To give us elbow room.
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Note for non-Italian users: Sorry, though the interface of this website is translated into English, most commentaries and biographies are in Italian and/or in other languages like French, German, Spanish, Russian etc.
Recorded at Vanguard Studios, 71 West 23rd Street, New York City, 1971
Music composed by Country Joe McDonald,
based on poems written by Robert Service, used with permisssion
PART ONE
Foreword - The Call (War! War! War!) - Young Fellow, My Lad - The Man from Athabasca
PART TWO
The Munition Maker - The Twins - Jean Desprez
PART THREE
War Widow - The March of the Dead