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They died of Southern fever, And Southern steel and shot,
I wish they was three million, Instead of what we got.
I followed old mas' Robert
For four year near about, Got wounded in three places,
And starved at Pint Lookout; I cotched the roomatism,
A campin' in the snow, But I killed a chance o' Yankees,
I'd like to kill some mo'.
I can't take up my musket
And fight 'em now no more, But I ain't a-going to love 'em,
Now that is sartin' sure; And I don't want no pardon,
For what I was and am, I won't be reconstructed,
And I don't care a damn.