See him advancing, the sweet little man!
When the red flails of the battlefield’s threshers
Beat out the continent’s wheat from its bran,
While the wind scatters the chaffy seceshers,
What will become of our sweet little man?
When the brown soldiers come back from the borders,
How will he look while his features they scan?
How will he feel when he gets marching orders,
Signed by his lady love? sweet little man.
Fear not for him though the Rebels expect him,—