What’s the matter little sogers,
Why run up and down the land,
With your eyes as red as lobsters,
Headed by a Northern band.
Do you seek your brother’s life blood,
Red with patriotic zeal;
Would you trample on his honor,
Would you of him make a meal.
Fie! upon you, little sogers,
Shame upon you little boys—
Know you that the Southern generals
Scorn to go to war with toys.
Meet them once in glorious battle,
You will learn of what they are made;
They will cut you all in pieces,
Lovers of this wicked raid.
Come now, sogers, let us reason,
Why should this fanatic hate;
Rankle in your precious body,
From your foot sole to your pate!
Have the Southern people harmed you,
Have they robbed you of your right;
Have they trod upon your honor,
Have they given spite for spite?
Come now, sogers, run off homeward,
Drop your arms and use your feet;
Wicked sight to all creation,
Brother’s in revenge to meet.