By A Growler.

Let me whisper in your ear, sir,
Something that the South should hear, sir,
Of the war, of the war, of the war in Dixie;
A growing curse—a “burning shame,” sir,
In the chorus I will name, sir,
Of the war, of the war, of the war in Dixie.

Chorus.—The officers of Dixie alone, alone!
The honors share, the honors wear
Throughout the land of Dixie!
’Tis so, ’tis so, throughout the land of Dixie.

Swelling ’round with gold lace plenty,
See the gay “brass button” gentry;
Solomon in all his splendors
Was scarce arrayed like these “defenders.”

In cities, sir, it is alarming
To see them ’round the hotel swarming;
And at each little “one-horse town,” sir,
See the “birds” how they “fly ’round,” sir.

On the steamboat, in the cars, sir,
Deep respect is shown the “bars,” sir.
And if a “star” or two is spotted,
See how “the elephant” is courted.

Should a grand soiree be given,
The “braided lions” take the even.
No, no! the privates are not slighted!
They can’t expect to be invited!

The ladies! bless the darling creatures!
Quite distort their pretty features,
And say (I know you’ve seen it done, sir),
“They’ll have an officer or none,” sir.

And if when death-shots round us rattle,
An officer is kill’d in battle—
How the martyr is lamented!
(This is right—we’ve not dissented).

But only speak of it to show, sir,
Privates are not honor’d so, sir.
No muffled drum, no wreath of glory,
If one dies, proclaims the story.

In Dixie’s land, in every way, sir,
“Fuss and feathers” “win the day,” sir,
For with all sexes, sizes, ages,
How the “gold lace fever” rages!

List the moral of my song, sir;
In Dixie there is something wrong, sir.
As all that glitters is not gold, sir,
Read and ponder what I’ve told, sir.