"A surgeon of the United States' army says that on inquiring of
  the Captain of his company, he found that NINE-TENTHS of the men
  had enlisted on account of some female difficulty."—Morning Paper.

Ye Yankee Volunteers!
  It makes my bosom bleed
  When I your story read,
     Though oft 'tis told one.
  So—in both hemispheres
  The women are untrue,
  And cruel in the New,
     As in the Old one!

  What—in this company
  Of sixty sons of Mars,
  Who march 'neath Stripes and Stars,
     With fife and horn,
  Nine-tenths of all we see
  Along the warlike line
  Had but one cause to join
     This Hope Forlorn?

  Deserters from the realm
  Where tyrant Venus reigns,
  You slipp'd her wicked chains,
     Fled and out-ran her.
  And now, with sword and helm,
  Together banded are
  Beneath the Stripe and Star
     Embroider'd banner!

  And is it so with all
  The warriors ranged in line,
  With lace bedizen'd fine
     And swords gold-hilted—
  Yon lusty corporal,
  Yon color-man who gripes
  The flag of Stars and Stripes—
     Has each been jilted?

  Come, each man of this line,
  The privates strong and tall,
  "The pioneers and all,"
     The fifer nimble—
  Lieutenant and Ensign,
  Captain with epaulets,
  And Blacky there, who beats
     The clanging cymbal—

  O cymbal-beating black,
  Tell us, as thou canst feel,
  Was it some Lucy Neal
     Who caused thy ruin?
  O nimble fifing Jack,
  And drummer making din
  So deftly on the skin,
     With thy rat-tattooing—

  Confess, ye volunteers,
  Lieutenant and Ensign,
  And Captain of the line,
     As bold as Roman—
  Confess, ye grenadiers,
  However strong and tall,
  The Conqueror of you all
     Is Woman, Woman!

  No corselet is so proof
  But through it from her bow
  The shafts that she can throw
     Will pierce and rankle.
  No champion e'er so tough,
  But's in the struggle thrown,
  And tripp'd and trodden down
     By her slim ankle.

  Thus always it was ruled:
  And when a woman smiled,
  The strong man was a child,
     The sage a noodle.
  Alcides was befool'd,
  And silly Samson shorn,
  Long, long ere you were horn,
     Poor Yankee Doodle!

This poem is in the public domain.