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161. the Southern volunteer's farewell to his wife.

Fresh from snuff-dipping to his arms she went,
     And he, a quid removing from his mouth,
Pressed her in anguish to his manly breast,
     And spat twice, longingly, toward the South.

“Zara,” he said, and hiccup'd as he spoke,
     ”Indeed, I find it most (hic) ‘stremely hard
To leave my wife, my niggers, and my debts,
     And march to glory with the “ Davis Guard;”

”But all to arms the South has called her sons,
     And while there's something Southern hands can steal,
You can't (hic) ‘spect me to stay here at home,
     With heartless duns forever at my heel.

”To-night a hen-coop falls; and in a week
     We'll take the Yankee Capital, I think;
But should it prove (hic) ‘spedient not to do't,
     Why, then, we'll take — in short, we'll take a drink.

”I reckon I may perish in the strife--
     Some bullet in the back might lay me low;
And as my business needs attendina to,
     I'll give you some directions ere I go:

”That cotton gin I haven't paid for yet--
     The Yankee trusted for it, dear, you know;
And it's a most (hic) ‘stremely doubtful thing,
     Whether it's ever used again, or no.

”If Yankee's agent calls while I am gone,
     It's my (hic) ‘spress command and wish, that you
Denounce him for an abolition spy,
     And have him hung before his note is due.

”That octoroon — who made you jealous, love--
     Who sews so well, and is so pale a thing;
She keeps her husband, Sambo, from his work--
     You'd better sell her — well, for what she'll bring.

[134] ”In case your purse runs low while I'm away--
     There's Dinah's children--two (hic) ‘spensive whelps;
They won't bring much, the way the markets are,
     But then, you know how every little helps.

”And there's that Yankee schoolmistress, you know,
     Who taught our darlings how to read and spell;
Now don't (hic) ‘spend a cent to pay her bill;
     If she arn't tarred and feathered, she'll do well!

”And now, my dear, I go where booty calls;
     I leave my whiskey, cotton-crop, and thee;
Pray that in battle I may not (hic) ‘spire,
     And when you lick the niggers, think of me.

”If on some mournful summer afternoon
     They should bring home to you your warrior dead (drunk?)
Inter me with a toothpick in my hand,
     And write a last (hic) jacet o'er my head.“

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