An’ the prod of a southern bayonet, so liberal are we here,
I’ll resign and let Sambo take it, on every day in the year,
On every day in the year, boys, an’ wid none of your nasty pride,
All right in a southern bagnet prod, wid Sambo I’ll divide.
The men who object to Sambo, should take his place and fight,
An’ it is betther to have a Naygur’s hue, than a liver that’s weak an’ white,
Though Sambo’s black as the ace of spades, his finger a thryger can pull,
An’ his eye runs straight on the barrel sight from under its thatch of wool,
So hear me all, boys, darlin, don’t think I’m tipping you chaff,
The right to be kilt, I’ll divide with him, an’ give him the largest half.