Dese milerterry nigger chaps, with muskets in deir han’s,
Perradin’ froo de city to de music ob de ban’s,
Had better drop deir guns, an’ go to marchin’ wid deir hoes
An’ git a honest libbin’ as dey chop de cotton-rows,
Or de State may put ’em arter while to drillin’ in de ditches,
Wid more’n a single stripe a-runnin’ ’cross deir breeches.
Well, you think dat doin’ nuffin’ ’tall is mighty sort o’ nice,
But it busted up de renters in de lubly Paradise!
You see, dey bofe was human bein’s jes’ like me an’ you,
An’ dey couldn’t reggerlate deirselves wid not a thing to do;