And I don’t want no one-horse pardon for anything I done.
I followed old Marse Robert for four years nigh about,
Got wounded in three places and starved at Point Look-Out:
I cotched the rheumatism a-campin’ in the snow,
But I killed a chance of Yankees, and I’d like to kill some moe.
Two hundred thousand Yankees is stiff in Southern dust,
We got two hundred thousand before they conquered us:
They died of Southern fever and Southern steel and shot—
I wish it was two millions instead of what we got!
And now the war is over and I can’t fight them any more,