“Och, it’s nate to be captain or colonel,
Divil a bit would I want to be higher;
But to rust as a private, I think’s an infernal
Predicament, surely,” says Private Maguire.

“They can go sparkin’ and playin’ at billiards,
With money to spend for their slightest desire,
Loafin’ and atin’ and drinkin’ at Ballard’s,
While we’re on the pickets,” says Private Maguire.

“Livin’ in clover, they think it’s a trifle
To stand out all night in the rain and the mire,
And a Yankee hard by, with a villainous rifle,
Just riddy to pop ye,” says Private Maguire.

“Faith, now, it’s not that I’m afther complainin’,
I’m spilin’ to meet ye, Abe Lincoln, Esquire!
Ye blaggard! it’s only I’m weary of thrainin’,
And thrainin’, and thrainin’,” says Private Maguire.

“O Lord, for a row! but Maguire, boy, be aisy,
Kape yourself swate for the inimy’s fire;
General Lee is the chap that shortly will plaze ye,
Be the Holy St. Patrick!” says Private Maguire.

“And, lad, if ye’re hit (O, bedad, that infernal
Jimmy O’Dowd would make love to Maria!)
Whether ye’re captain, or major, or colonel,
Ye’ll die with the best then,” says Private Maguire.