Root Hog or Die.
I’ll tell you of a story that happened long ago,
When the English came to America, I s’pose you all do know,
They couldn’t whip the Yankees, I’ll tell you the reason why,
Uncle Sam made ’em sing, Root Hog or Die.
John Bull sent to Boston, as you shall plainly see,
Forty large ships loaded clear up with tea;
The Yankees wouldn’t pay the tax, I’ll tell the reason why,
The Yankee boys made em sing, Root Hog or Die,
They first met our armies on the top of Bunker Hill,
When it came to fighting, I guess they got their fill;
The Yankee boys chased them off, I’ll tell you the reason why,
The Yankee boys made ’em sing, Root Hog or Die.
Then they met our Washington at Yorktown,
There the Yankees mow’d ’em down, like grass from the ground;
Old Cornwallis gave up his sword, I’ll tell you the reason why,
General Washington made ’em sing, Root Hog or Die.
Then they came to Baltimore forty years ago,
They tried to take North Point, but found it wouldn’t go;
The Baltimoreans chased them off, I’ll tell the reason why
The Yankee boys made ’em sing Root Hog or Die.
Then they march’d their arms down to New Orleans,
That was the place, I think, that Jackson gave ’em beans;
They couldn’t take our cotton bales, I’ll tell the reason why,
General Jackson made ’em sing, Root Hog or Die.
Now Johnny Bull has been kicking up a fuss,
He’d better keep quiet or he’ll surely make it worse,
We’re bound to have Cuba, I’ll tell you the reason why,
For Uncle Sam will make ’em sing, Root Hog or Die.
Root Hog or Die,
No. 2.
The greatest old nigger that ever I did see,
Look’d like a sick monkey up a sour apple-tree;
It don’t make a bit of difference to either you or I
Big pig, little pig, root hog or die.
CHORUS.
Chief cook and bottle washer, captain of the waiters,
Stand upon your head while you peel a bag of taters.
Jog along.
I come from old Virginny with a pocket-full of news
I am worth four shillings, standing in my shoes;
Doesn’t make a bit of difference to either you or I,
Little pig, big pig, root hog or die.
Chief cook, &c.
The Broadway niggers look so mighty grand,
Shanghai coats and gloves upon the hand,
A big standing collar, standing away up to the sky,
Little pig, big pig, root hog or die.
Chief cook, &c.
Oh, these Broadway gals look so mighty gay,
With their hoop’d skirts promenading Broadway,
Their bonnets on their shoulders, and their noses to the sky,
They go it in the sun or shade—root hog or die.
Chief cook, &c.
Root Hog or Die,
No. 3.
I am a jolly nigger as ever you did see,
I come from Alabama just for to have a spree;
I tought I come to York, dey do things up so high,
Bound to have a spree, boys—root hog or die.
CHORUS.
New York gals—dey are so mighty tender,
Have to put on hoops when dey go out on a bender.
Jog along.
I jump’d upon de boat as she started from de lebby,
Dey put me in de hole in something of a hurry,
De coal dey made me shovel, oh, how dey made me fly;
Dat’s de way I come, boys—root hog or die.
New York gals, &c.
You tallk about your niggers dat grow up in de North,
Can’t compete wid dis one dat sprouted in de South,
Dey call me Blind Dick, kase I’ve only got one eye,
Dat’s not my name, boys—root hog or die.
New York gals, &c.
When I take a walk I look so mighty gay,
All de gals I draw from over cross de way,
Wid my long-tail coat, mustache to de eye,
Dat’s what dey like, boys—root hog or die.
New York gals, &c.
I’ll go back to Alabama wid a head full of nollige,
And tell de folks dare I jis cum from college;
Dey’ll take me for a lord, or somethin’ else, I’m thinkin
I’se a mighty smart nigger, but I do my own drinkin’.
New York gals, &c.
Root Hog or Die,
No. 4.
I am de greatest little darkey on de top ob de earth,
New York is my home and de place ob my birth
I do ply upon de banjo, and dar I don’t deny,
I’m bound to be a sport, boys—root hog or die.
CHORUS.
Now I’ll tell all you, boys, what you’d better stop a doing,
Dat is a drinking lager beer, and give up tobacco chewing;
Now I’ll tell all you boys, what you’d better stop a doing,
Dat is a drinking lager beer, and give up tobacco chewing.
Jog along.
De shanghai coats and de stub-toed boots,
Tight-legg’d pants, and all such fancy suits,
Big Byron collars and mustaches to de eye,
Dat’s de way to sport, boys—root hog or die.
Now I’ll tell you all, &c.
Now I’ll tell you, one and all, dat I feel mighty proud,
When I have my banjo wid me, and gets into a crowd,
Dey do make a circle round me, and out dey do cry,
For to sing dis good old song, boys—root hog or die.
Now I’ll tell you all, &c.
You may talk about your fiddles and de old tambo,
But they cannot be compared with de old banjo,
On it I’ll end my song, and I’m not ashamed to deny
The title that I give it, boys, was—root hog or die.
Now I’ll tell you all, &c.