“So ye're runnin' fer Congress, mister? Le'
me tell ye 'bout my son,
Might make you fellers carefuller down
there in Washington:
He clings to his rifle an' uniform—folks
call him Whisperin' Bill,
An' I tell ye the war ain't over yit up here
on Bowman's Hill.
“This dooryard is his battle-field—le's see,
he was nigh sixteen