John D. Billings, Hardtack and Coffee: The Unwritten Story of Army Life, page 27

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19th-Century American

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[27]

All the fair maidens about him shall cluster,
Pluck the white feather from bonnet and fan,
Make him a plume like a turkey-wing duster,--
That is the crest for the sweet little man.

Oh, but the Apron-string Guards are the fellows!
Drilling each day since our trouble began,--
“Handle your walking-sticks!” “Shoulder umbrellas!”
That is the style for the sweet little man.

Sweet little men of ‘61.

Have we a nation to save? In the first place
Saving ourselves is the sensible plan.
Surely, the spot where there's shooting's the worst place
Where I can stand, says the sweet little man.

Catch me confiding my person with strangers,
Think how the cowardly Bull-Runners ran!
In the brigade of the Stay-at-home Rangers
Marches my corps, says the sweet little man.

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