ows' and the orphans' tears, Shed for the slain to-day: The blood of all those gallant braves, Whom Southern traitors slew, Cry sternly, from their loyal graves, For vengeance upon you; And, if you're not prepared to die The death of Haman, fly, Jeff — fly! Fly, traitor, to some lonely niche, Far, far beyond the billow; Thy grave an ill-constructed ditch-- Thy sexton General Pillow. There may you turn to rottenness, By mortal unannoyed, Your ashes undisturbed, unless Your grave is known to Floyd. He'll surely trouble your repose, And come to steal your burial-clothes.
Epitaph. Pause for an instant, loyal reader. Here lies Jeff, the great seceder. Above, he always lied, you know, And now the traitor lies below. His bow was furnished with two strings, He flattered crowds and fawned on kings; Repaid his country's care with evil, And prayed to God, and served the devil. The South could whip the Yankee nation, So he proposed humiliation! Their blessings were so everlasting, 'Twas ju