Gen. Mcclellan, Is The Choice Of The People.
Oh, they talk about brave little Mac,
And make why faces—bad luck to them,
While he rushed on our foes with a whack,
And like grim death has he stuck to them,
They howl at his plans like the divil,
The spalpeens each movement harasses,
While with a movement more certain than civil,
He hurled all our foes from Manassas.
Oh, the blagguards that howl after blood,
In Congress, so safe in their seats, sir,
Would urge him through storms and through flood,
Then snarl at success or defeats, sir.
If his movements don’t suit ism preachers,
Who safely remain on the shelves;
If they’re such illigant teachers
Why don’t they “go in” then themselves.
Oh. there’s Wilson, that’s howling so loud,
Who a regiment raised in hummach,
And march through the streets mighty proud,
But at Long Brige grew sick at the stomach,
And Sumner, too, he of the sore head,
Red ink would make the man shiver,
Yet of Mac sorry things has he said,
Because blood don’t flow like a river.
Still there’s little Mac, so quiet,
Not a word of complaint will he spake,
But danger he’s born to defy it;
And the head of Rebellion he’ll break.
At Yorktown he took all their batteries,
With nary the loss of a man;
And, though I’m not given to flatteries,
He’s doing the best that he can.
At Williamsburg, too, do you see,
He’s not given to drinking or naps,
But with forces just one against three,
He routed the traitorly chaps.
Wives and children his name blesses,
Though victory may hover near,
Without blood he would gain his successes,
And save the lone widow’s tear.
Then give three big cheers for McClellan,
The gallant and true little Mac,
The snake of Rebellion he’s tread on,
And flattened him stiff on his back.
He don’t care a damn for the howlers,
It’s freedom he’s trying to save,
He’ll straighten these traitorly growlers,
And the flag of the Union shall wave.