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

17. Don't Fret.

Be patient with your rulers, men;
     They can't be in a hurry;
No man is worth a feather's weight,
     When always in a flurry.

And spare that nimble cracking whip,
     Your fiery mettle save;
Abe Lincoln is your servant, sure,
     But he is not your slave.

You charge that he was Southern born,
     And winks at Old Kentuck;
That witches of the border States
     Have stolen all his pluck.

I'll let you prove his woful birth,
     And magnify the sin;
But only one smart Southern witch
     Could ever take him in!

And in that very act she proved
     Upon the union side!
And every prank of hers has shown
     The Union was her pride.

You say our leaders hardly heed
     The foeman's lightning red;
And thus admit how cool they keep
     In marching straight ahead.

Emancipation, you proclaim,
     Is now within their power;
But, since the fruit is ripening fast,
     Await the gathering hour.

For every thing there is a time,
     We may not fix the date;
But when we find the harvest sure,
     With gladness we should wait.

In consternation soon the foe
     Will feel the settling stroke,
And find old Lincoln's cool delay
     A thundering sort of joke!

I am not e'en a prophet's son,
     But I predict a rout,
That soon will make the nations pause,
     And hills and valleys shout.

We then shall hear the eagle-scream
     Above the cannon's roar,
And see the country's flag restored
     From shore to farthest shore!

Be patient with your rulers, then;
     They can't be in a hurry;
No man is worth a feather's weight,
     When always in a flurry.