"Audax omnia perpeti Gens Lincolna ruit per vititum nefas."

“Audax omnia perpeti Gens Lincolna ruit per vetitum nefas.”

Come pretty Muse give me your help,
Keen make my pen-as the teamster’s lash,
That I may prove to each worthless whelp,
‘Tis useless lo strive the South to thrash.

You Mansfield leader of the spies,
We leave to your father, the father of lies,
But coolly Jeff your plans will retard,
By sending to meet you his Beauregard;
The thrashing we gave you at the Junction,
Should teach yon that your proper function
Is to nurse Scott, not fight with men,
Though their numbers be but one to ten.

To you McDowell, we wish “God speed!”
For you. failed them at their utmost need,
Of you no more need now be said,
Except we’re glad you are not dead!

A coward, hypocrite, and sneak,
Who in his head is very weak,
Vienna Schenck we know full well,
Will finally with Satan dwell.
His name should not be Schenck but. “Skunk,”
As he from his duty has always slunk,
Bat as it is we’ll let him go,
We scorn to strike a fallen foe.

Next come we to Old Daniel Tyler,
Whose only synonym is “riler”
But as he’s beaten let him pass
He always was a stupid ass.
You General Siegel well we know
Dare not your head to Jackson show
* “Broken for cowardice,” you stand
The brave (?) defender of free (?) Yankee land.
With right and might we Siegel fight,
Who shows his courage by his flight.

For want of a better now we fix
On our great Lord and Master Dix,
The colleague of that Traitor Hicks,
Into whom we’d pitch like bricks,
Did not his littleness him save
From notice till he fills a grave,
Which won’ be soon if he can help.
For he’s a chicken-livered whelp
Riding o’er each freeman’s rights,
Suits him much better than Virginian fights.
He dares not in Virginia place his foot
Lest. some stray rifle should him shoot,
Nor e’en outside the Fort to sit,
Lest a flying brick his head might hit.

Who’s Cox? is echoed from each side,
Who’s Stone? as loudly has been cried,
“Arcades Ambo” let them go,
They’ll help to swell B. Arnold’s row,
In Hell’s back kitchen where you know
Ward Beecher says that traitors go.†

Villians I cease, my pen some rest, demands,
Though you deserve no favors from my hands,
Nor shall you get them by the “Eternal!”
Unless they send you to the Infernal,
You may leave this world and climb a tree,
But can’t escape Yours Truly, B.

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