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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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