Song
Poor soldier, poor soldier, Take warning by me,
The fruits of Secession, Behold you now see.
My life is tormented,
My body confined,
My wife and dear children,
Left weeping behind.
No meat in the meat tub,
No meal in the tray,
They go to bed hungry,
And get up the same way.
And how they are to live,
I’ll declare I don’t know,
For along comes the Calvary,
Drives off my last cow.
Along comes the Cavalry
Inquiring for corn
He enquires for the tax mon.
Oh, there goes my corn
The tenth of my fodder,
They have taken at last
My wife and dear children did save in the grass.
Oh, dismal, oh, dismal
My life is to me
The fruits of secession
Behold I now see
My children is hungry
And crying for bread.
How much worse would they be
If their father was dead.
W.F. Ponder