But, oh, ’twas a cruel hoax, Jeff. Davis,
You’re alive and kicking, we see,
And there’s many now would hang you, poor Jeff. Davis,
On the branch of the first sycamore tree.
Your pockets they are empty, poor Jeff. Davis,
And of gold you are very much in need,
While starvation mounts the throne close beside you,
And secession has just gone to seed;
And, oh, what a sad mistake, Jeff. Davis,
To think with cotton all alone