By M. B. Smith, Co. C, Second Texas Volunteer Infantry.
|Just listen awhile, and give ear to my song|
Concerning this war, which will not take me long;
Old Lincoln, the blower, swore the Rebels he’d whip,
But thanks to my stars, he has not done it yet,
For it’s hard times.
Manassa’s the spot, if I recollect right,
Where Yankees and Southerners had their first fight;
We whipped them so badly, our boys thought it fun,
And ever since then they have called it Bull Run,
Those were grand times.
Old Lincoln had put in his very best man—
It was old General Scott who led in his clan—
But in facing Jeff Davis he couldn’t shine,
For we captured his cakes, his brandies and wine,
Then we’d fine times.
Old Abe and the “Gen’ral” soon got at “out,”
Which caused the “Old Gen’ral” to complain of gout;
So he told Marse Abe that he would resign,
And he laid all the blame to the very hard times,
O, it was hard times.
McClellan was the next man put in the field,
With brass-hilted sword and a sole-leather shield;
He boasted quite loudly the Rebels he’d whip—
But you see, my dear friends, he’s not done it yet,
For it’s hard times.
Yet there was another, Gen. Buell, the great,
That followed our Beauregard clean thro’ one State,
But at Tennessee River he got all his fill—
I’m certain he remembered the Shiloh Hill!
There were Banks, Shields and Fremont, big generals all,
While skirmishing ’round ran afoul of “Stonewall!”
With Longstreet and Hill, very near by his side,
Who said: “Wo-ee, Yankees, let’s all have a ride!”
Old Jackson he then got around to their rear,
So the day was ours you can see very clear;
Then he sent a dispatch to brave General Lee,
“Drive all the Yankees into eternity?”
But at Gainesville station they made a bold stand,
Where they collected a formidable band,
And swore to their fill that the Rebels they’d whip,
But the Texans made them everlastingly “git!”
Now the last I’ve heard of McClellan, the third;
He was down on James River bogg’d up in the mud,
In a bend of the river, near a big pond,
The want of more news puts an end to my song.
August 13, 1862.