JOHNSON, Song Publisher, No. 7 N. 10th St., Phila.
Say, Conscripts, have you got your notice,
To gird your armor on,
And go to fight for Uncle Sammy,
Way down at Washington?
The draft has changed our ocupations,
And though our feet are sore,
We are now coming Father Abraham,
Three hundred thousand more.
We are a hungry, healthy army,
Of hunkey “first class” men;
All going to fight for the dear old Union,
To have it sound again.
With that old banner waving o’er us,
Oh boys, we surely can,
Whip Beauregard, Johnston, Lee, Jeff. Davis,
“Or any other man.”
We’re going because the nation needs us,
And while we’re in the muss,
We’re going to whip the rebels certain,
Or else there’ll be a fuss.
There’s not a Copperhead among us,
Our record fair to stain;
Nor are we troubled with that disorder,
Called corpus on the brain.
We couldn’t raise our little “three hundred,”
But still we don’t much care;
We are a hearty band of brothers,
Who never sweat a hair.
You’ll see us back one of these fine mornings,
When peace “has come to stay;”
And then we never shall be sorry,
We sung the Conscript’s Lay.