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He was not used to so much labor,
And soon the poor old man broke down,
He fund, alas! their boasted freedom
A cross and not a crown.
They made my poor boy, Phil, a soldier,
And took him from me far away;
He stood through many a bloody battle,
Was wounded often, many a day;
He did not wish to be a soldier,
He only wanted to be free--
They only loaded him with irons,
Or lashed him to a tree.
Before him once, in line of battle,
He saw our fine young master Jim,
Then dropped poor Phil his Yankee musket,
He could not, would not, fire on him;
For they had played, been raised together,
Young master Jim had cried for Phil--
The Yankees gave the onward order,
But my poor boy stood still.
And then his more than cruel masters,
White men, with hearts and deeds all black,
Struck him down with gun and sabre,
And left him dying on their track.
O missus! my old heart is broken,
My lot all grief and pain has been;
For little Judy, too, is ruined,
In their dark camps of sin.
O Massa William! see me kneeling,
O Missus! say one word for me!
You'll let me stay? Oh! thank you massa;
Now I'm happy! now I'm free!
I've seen enough of Yankee freedom,
I've had enough of Yankee love!
As they have treated the poor negro,
Be't done to them above.
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