But my narves it kind o’ grates,
Wen I see the overreachin’
O’ them nigger-drivin’ States.
Them thet rule us, them slave-traders,
Hain’t they cut a thunderin’ swath
(Helped by Yankee renegaders),
Thru the vartu o’ the North!
We begin to think it’s natur
To take sarse an’ not be riled—
Who’d expect to see a tater