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Old Grant is starving1 us out,
Our grub is fast wasting away, Pemb don't know what he's about,
And he hasn't for many a day. So we'll bury " Old Logan " to-night,
From tough beef we'll be set free; We'll put him far out of sight—
No more of his meat for me.
Texas " steers " are no longer in view,
Mule steaks are now "done up brown," "While " pea-bread," mule roast, and mule stew,
Are our fare in old Vicksburg town. And the song of our hearts shall be,
While the "Yanks" and their gunboats rave, A life in "bomb-proofs" for me,
And a tear o'er "Old Logan's " grave.