Where the Bishop-General proves that the rod
Which lashes women is blest of God.
There's a rod to come, ere the red leaves fall,
Which will swallow your rattlesnake, scales and all.
Where the wretched Northern renegade
On a Southern journal plies his trade,
Swearing and writing, with scowl or smile,
That all that is Yankee is low and vile.
Where the cowardly dough-face talks of war
But fears we are going a little too far;—