Haint they cut a thunderin’ swarth,
(Helped by Yankee renegaders[129])
Thru the vartu o’ the North!
We begin to think it’s nater
To take sarse an’ not be riled;—
Who’d expect to see a tater
All on eend at bein’ biled?
Ez fer war, I call it murder—
There you hev it plain an’ flat;
I don’t want to go no furder