Oh have you heard of the brave old fellow,
He goes by the name of Ben McCullough,
He fills his foes with consternation,
He’s the pride of all the Southern nation,
He’s the man above all the rest, sirs,
That scatters all the Lincoln nest, sirs,
That makes them fly at the smell of powder,
That uses them up like old fish chowder.
The Kentucky boys he’s got to back him,
The lowa boys will fail to crack him,
The Illinois crew he’ll beat all hollow,
Be quick Indian, if him you want to follow.
He comes upon his foes like red hot brick bats,
He takes off their scalps like so many wild cats,
Anthony Wayne is no circumstances to him,
Though many of his foes do strive to undo him.
Huzza for McCullough the brave rifle ranger,
The friend of truth—to vice a stranger,
He’s a hard old knot of the hickory tree, sir,
He’ll work night and day to set the South free sir,