Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 4.
Frank Moore, Ed.

18. Songs of the Rebels.

The Times.

by Kate.

Come, list to my song,
     It will not be long,
Of a war-fire cursing our nation;
     By demagogues cruel,
With Republican fuel,
     It threatens our land's desolation.

“Old Abe” was elected,
     Just what I expected,
“Chief ruler,” “chief justice,” “the law,”
     But since they've crowned him,
Wise men have found him
     A Northern fanatic's gew-gaw.

On a “platform” he stands,
     Of “free niggers,” “free lands,”
“Free all,” save a Freeman's communion;
     A “splitter,” his trade,
Thus a “wedge” he has made
     Of war to dissever the Union.

He is spoken of freely
     Through Monitor Greeley,
Who stands at the head of the “stairs,”
     On the “planks of Chicago,”
As bold as “Iago,”
     And curses all Southern affairs.

The South this have taken,
     And cannot be shaken,
It matters not what they assert;
     They'll “poke at 'em fun,”
Like that of “Bull's Run,”
     And say, with Abe, nobody's hurt!

I've heard it before,
     Down in Baltimore,
Of “mixing with water, strychnine,”
     'Twas said that old Butler,
（Abraham's sutler,)
     Was this “Borgia,” or vile “Catiline.”

At no distant day,
     All freemen will say,
Thus rightly give Abe his desert;
     “This war we ignore--
We've told you before,
     It must cease, or ‘somebody's hurt.’ ”

Then England with France,
     And Spain, too, may dance,
We'll ask not, nor care not about them;
     For with all united,
(If the South is arighted,)
     We'll laugh and live happy without them.

Fairfax C. H., Va., July 80, 1861.