I leave my whisky, cotton-crop, and thee;
Pray, that in battle I may not (hic) 'spire,
And when you lick the niggers think of me.
"If on some mournful summer afternoon
They should bring home to you your warrior dead,
Inter me with a toothpick in my hand,
And write a last (hic) jacet o'er my head."
We found this in the shed lately used by the chivalric Constarveracy as a guard-house, my boy, and read it with deep emotion.
Yours, Manassastonished,
Orpheus C. Kerr.