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Four years more to mature his plans, To chain our feet and tie our hands, Four years more to plot and revel, And send us headlong to the devil, And Abe upset his glory.

Though many a brave and valiant son
Must die before our warring's done,
Our fathers' land shall yet be free;
Away with chains and slavery,
And Abe shall have the glory.

Let those who're rebels in disguise,
Go down with Jeff and sympathize;
If they want niggers, let them go
To Dixie's land where niggers grow,
And Abe shall have the glory.

In 'seventy-six our fathers saw
Just such tories hung by law;
In 'sixty-three their children see
Many unhung, who ought to be,

And Abe shall have the glory.

BURN YOUR COTTON.*

BY DR. S. SILSBEE.

BURN your cotton-burn it, burn it—

Let the flaming incense rise,
With the shrieks of human chattels,
'Mid the tortured "nigger's" cries.
Burn it, burn it! 'tis the emblem
Of your infamy and pride;
Fitting offering on the altars.

Where man's freedom is denied.

Burn your cotton-oh! 'tis noble !
Sweep the Mississippi's vale;
Ruin falls so cheap and easy

On-who never owned a bale.
Oh! by all means burn the cotton,
It is written-late or soon,
To whom gods have given madness
"Hari Kari" is a boon.

Burn it, burn it, for the cotton
Is the only thing you own;

Save the "niggers" and plantations,
Where the fleecy staple's grown;

*See page 187, REBEL RHYMES.

All the rest is yours by pillage,
And the pirate's law of might,
Yet you deprecate oppression,
And pretend to prate of right.

Yes, by all means, burn your cotton,
We will bear its loss as well
As the blind and foolish planters,
Who but sing their final knell ;
Shout the battle-cry of cotton,

Light the fires, explode the mine; Freedom never more will worship At your cotton monarch's shrine.

Burn your cotton, crazy traitors; 'Tis your cue, without a doubt— In the coming retribution

You'll be nearly all "played out."
Burn your cotton, if it please you,*
For its blaze will furnish light
To the legions of the Union,
Who are gathering in their might.

Burn your cotton, for the freemen
Of the world are looking on;
When its fires fade, the footsteps
Of the tyrants shall be gone.

Light it, light it! 'tis the battle

Torch of freedom and the brave,
To illuminate the Union

That our patriot fathers gave.

Fire your hearts, and burn the cotton-
Let the flames rise high and higher,
Till the last torch of rebellion

In the ashes shall expire.

And upon the blazing pyre, too, Human slavery we'll fling, Until justice-human justiceAnd not Cotton, shall be King. Cincinnati, August 10, 1862.

MY MARYLAND.

THE rebel feet are on our shore,
Maryland! My Maryland!

I smell 'em half a mile or more,

Maryland! My Maryland!

Their shockless hordes are at my door,
Their drunken generals on my floor,
What now can sweeten Baltimore?

Maryland! My Maryland!

Hark to our noses' dire appeal,

Maryland! My Maryland
O unwashed rebs! to you we kneel,
Maryland! My Maryland!

If

you can't purchase soap, oh! steal
That precious article-I feel

Like scratching from the head to heel,
Maryland! My Maryland!

You're covered thick with mud and dust,
Maryland! My Maryland!
As though you'd been upon a bust,
Maryland! My Maryland!

Remember, it is scarcely just,

To have a filthy fellow thrust
Before us, till he's been scrubbed fust,
Maryland! My Maryland!

I see no blush upon thy cheek,
Maryland! My Maryland!

It's not been washed for many a week,
Maryland! My Maryland!

To get thee clean-'tis truth I speak--
Would dirty every stream and creek
From Potomac to Chesapeake,
Maryland! My Maryland!

July, 1862.

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