A Confderate song typical of the rash of patriotic songs and poetry produced by both sides, especially in the first year of the war
[small vignette of hunter with rifle and hound]
Come gentle muse give me your aid,
Sharp make my pen as Ashby’s blade,
That I may make a good selection,
Of scoundrels for this day’s dissection.
First, Winfield Scott is on our list,
But gout has made him drop his fist,
For fuss and feathers only famous,
He thinks by proxy he can tame us.
Whenever Lincoln’s at a loss,
He quickly lies him to the Boss,
For so he styles this prince of leaders,
This deadly foe of all seceders,
Who from his chair, scarce dares to move,
Lest his foot, for his feathers too weak should prove.
McClellan, from Ohio, next boldly rushes forth,
And leaves the Central railway to aide and help the
As fireman, brakesman, engineer, we make no doubt
But o’er our Johnston, let him crow when he gets
through the wood.
Now rushes on with drunken leer,
That gross ensample of all fear,
Bombastes Furioso Butler named,
For lies and boasting justly famed;
Major General is his rank,
For which we heaven devoutly thank.
These are the men, the Yankee nation,
Has raised to the exalted station,
of Major General, let them be,
By good luck you’ll soon farther see
And hear, from your obsequeous.
Broadside 1861 .S65