No, he hain’t no folks or friends but me:
His dad was killed in ’sixty-three.
Shot at the front, where bursting shell
And cannon sang their song of hell,
And muskets hissed with fiery breath,
As brave men fell to their tune of death.
I promised his father before he died,
As the life blood rushed from his wounded side,
I promised him, sir, and it gave him joy,
That I’d protect his darling boy.