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But it is all one to me who our Gen'ral may be,
If I've got to die for the nigger, While Greeley steps on feathers, and Beecher's patent leathers,
Sets Plymouth Church in a snigger.
War is mighty fine to them that's drinking wine
At the big hotels in York; But as for lousy me, that's lost his liberty,
Peace is the right sort o' talk.
I calk'late to stay, until next May,
A shiv'rin' in all this slush ; But when I git paid, I'm a leetle kinder 'fraid
I'll back out hum with a rush.
I'll pitch this gun into old Bull Run,
Like I did when I follered McDowell; Secesh may go his ways, and I'll spend my days
With my gal, my gin and my trowel.
Oh! I'm sick as a dog, or a mangy hog,
Of this 'tarnal nasty fightin', That's all gone wrong, and lasts too long
For a man that's thinkin' o' kitin'.
I'll tell you, Mississip, you're an ugly looking rip, And if you'll keep your side o' the water,
You may save your powder, and I'll take to chowder, And come no more where I hadn't oughter. |
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