You could frighten Uncle Sam, poor Jeff. Davis,
And then rob him of half of his home.
Oh, there’s trouble in the South, poor Jeff. Davis,
And your prestige is going to decay;
You had better get your duds ready shortly,
And push forward, an exile, this way,
We’ll feed you and lodge you, Jeff. Davis—
Our kindness you ne’er will forget—
We’ll take you out a sailing, poor Jeff. Davis,
And then land you at Fort Lafayette.