We're free from Yankee despots,
We've left the foul mud-sills,
Declared for e'er our freedom--
We'll keep it spite of ills.
Bring forth your scum and rowdies,
Thieves, vagabonds, and all;
March down your Seventh Regiment,
Battalions great and small.
We'll meet you in Virginia,
A Southern battle-field,
Where Southern men will never
To Yankee foemen yield.
Equip your Lincoln cavalry,
Your NEGRO _light_-brigade,
Your hodmen, bootblacks, tinkers,
And scum of every grade.
Pretended love for negroes
Incites you to the strife;
Well, come each Yankee white man,
And take a negro wife.
You'd make fit black companions,
Black heart joined to black skin;
Such _unions_ would be glorious--
They'd make the Devil grin.
Our freedom is our panoply--
Come on, you base _black_-guards,
We'll snuff you like wax-candles,
Led by our Beauregards.
P. G. T. B. is not alone,
Men like him with him fight;
God's providence is o'er us,
_He_ will protect the right.