’Fore you git ahold o’ me!
Thet air flag’s a leetle rotten,
Hope it aint your Sunday’s best;—
Fact! it takes a sight o’ cotton
To stuff out a soger’s chest:
Since we farmers hev to pay fer’t,
Ef you must wear humps like these
Sposin’ you should try salt hay fer’t,
It would du ez slick ez grease.
Them thet rule us, them slave-traders,