Taught me soul den, I must die a laffin.
Probose scart so, he left all behind—
Powder, ball, cannon, tea-pot an’ kettle—
Some say, he cotch a cold, perish in he mind,
’Bloig’d eat so much raw and cold vittle.
Unkle Sam berry sorry
To be sure for he pain—
Wish he nuss heself up, well an’ hearty—
For Gen’ral M’Comb
An’ Massa Donough home