Though we're exempt, we're not the _metal_
To keep in when duty calls;
But onward we will _press_, to settle
This knotty _case_, with leaden _balls_;
For our dear old mother State, the _fount_
From which we each our life did _take_,
Is _locked up_ by a Vandal horde,
And the honor of the _craft_'s at stake.
For _lean-faced_ Lincoln's after us--
His slim _shanks_ moving like a scout;
But long before his _job_ is done,
He'll find that all his _quads_ are _out_.
For with Lee our _headline_--worthy _guide_--
We, _galley_-slaves will never be,
But still _press_ onward by his side,
For that _fat take_, sweet liberty!
Soon Abe will find what he's about
Will cost him such a pile of rocks,
Before his cherished _work_ is _out_,
He'll have no _sorts_ in any _box_!
For his _bank_ is now so very low,
He scarce can _chase_ up _quoins_ to pay
The hired scum, the foreign foe,
Who comes to steal our rights away.
And his _chums_ now see, by his _foul matter_,
To set _clean proof_ he ne'er was _cast_,
And fears are felt that the gaunt old _ratter_
Will go _broadside_ to _hell_ at last,
Where his friend, the _devil_, will welcome him,
With _accents_ sweet--to his bosom fly,
_Revise_ his _foul proof-sheets_ once more,
And _knock_ his naked _form_ in _pi_.
And so to rush the base old _monk_ along,
And bring the quiet soon about,
We'll swell our _lines_ to _columns_ strong,
And give no quarters till he's _out_;
For Southern _jours._ now take a _stand_,
Their _foremen_ marshaled at their _head_,
And each with _shooting-stick_ in hand,
Resolved they will his _matter lead_.
And while a foe is in the field,
Our _hands_ still steady, our _leaders_ cool,
Death we'll _em-brace_ before we'll yield;
But, by God's help, we'll _stick_ and _rule_,
And when, in after years to come,
Our history's read by youth and sage,
They'll make a _side-note_ of "well done,"
On this our _volume's_ brightest _page_.
NORFOLK, VA., _April 4, 1862_.