A farmer came to camp, one day, with milk and eggs to sell,
Upon a mule who oft would stray to where no one could tell,
The farmer, tired of his tramp, for hours was made a fool
By ev’ryone he met in camp, with, “Mister, here’s your mule.”

Chorus.—Come on, come on, come on, old man, and don’t be made a fool,
I’ll tell the truth as best I can,
John Morgan’s got your mule.

His eggs and chickens all were gone before the break of day,
The mule was heard of all along—that’s what the soldiers say;
And still he hunted all day long—alas! the witless fool—
While ev’ry man would sing the song, “Mister, here’s your mule.”

The soldiers now, in laughing mood, on mischief were intent,
They toted muly on their backs, around from tent to tent;
Through this hole and that they pushed his head, and made a rule
To shout with humorous voices all, “Mister, here’s your mule.”

Alas! one day the mule was missed, ah! who could tell his fate?
The farmer, like a man bereft, searched early and searched late;
And as he passed from camp to camp, with stricken face, the fool
Cried out to ev’ryone he met, “Oh, Mister, where’s my mule?”