Song.
The Rebel’s Retort.
Air—“Cocachelunk.”
Tell us not we will make blunders,
That our hopes are but a dream,
What reck we of Lincoln’s thunders,
They are not the things they seem.
The Southrons all are bold and fearless,
Who fight for freedom as their goal,
Of lives and fortunes they are careless,
Seeking liberty of soul.
We’ve the generals that are wanted,
They have but one famous name,
Scott for fuss and feathers vaunted,
And they’re welcome to that same.
Then they’ve Bombastes F. Butler,
Conqueror of a pump go brave,
Lying, swearing, whiskey-gutter,
Harborer of many a slave.
Let us then be up and doing,
We will beat them sure as fate,
Nigger-worshippers pursuing
With a most inveterate hate.
While we’ve Lee and Johnson peerless,
Bragg and Beauregard so true,
We’re of George McClellan fearless,
Though he boasts what he can do.
So farewell “old Fuss and Feathers,”
Good bye “Picayune” also,
You’ll make excellent bell weathers,
To lose a fight in a week or so.
