Published by Chas. Magnus, 12 Frankfort, St., N. Y.
Once I could eat my fill of good mest.
And whiskey galore I could rule into me;
I could strele up and down every street in this town,
With always a quarter to go on a spree.
My clothes they were good, I ne’er thought of wood,
A pig or a spade never entered my mind,
But now I’m in grief since the black-hearted thief
Jeff Davis he brought these hard times unto me.
I walk up and down every street in this town,
But the devil a smell of a glass can I get:
I go every where to ease my despair,
But the hunger be gore keeps me in a big sweat;
Of my clothes there’s as much as would bolster a crutch,
My shirt wants a ribet or two in each seam,
May the hangman be brief, when he swings that old thief
Jeff Davis that brought these hard times unto me.
So badly I’m broke, I can’t raise a smoke,
Not even a chew can I find in the streets;
Nor a stump of cigar though I search near and far,
The’re made into shoddy it is my belief;
The oyster-bay swells sometimes gives me shells,
To polish my teeth or by way of a smack,
My stomach gets riley and then I curse wildly
Jeff Davis who brought these hard times unto me.
I’ll spit in my fist, and then I’ll enlist.
And off to the wars I’d march bould as brass,
I’ll fight till I die and e’er will I fly,
I’ll measure the length of myself on the grass:
Like a Brigadier private I’ll rush on the foe,
And I’ll lather the rebels both high and low
It’s then I’ll knock blazes, out of Jefferson Davis,
The vile traitor that brought these hard times unto me.