VERSES BY AN OLD CONFEDERATE

  This chilling letter and poem appeared in the Dundee Advertiser on Tuesday, February 20th 1872.

 To the Editor of the Dundee Advertiser.

 Sir, -

The enclosed was scribbled here by a Southerner who was of some note during the American war. He says United America can hold its own against United Europe, but there would be no United America to fight England on the Alabama question. He wants “something to do,” and would be delighted to return home, where a few friends would give him a welcome, and would guess what he came for. He puts the following query to blockade-runners in general – “If they could get every night into Charleston when Federal ships kept the blockade, wouldn’t it be much easier for them to get in if the blockade were kept by Britishers?” He inclines to the affirmative, and, in case of a certain event, he intends to call at Birmingham, on his way home, to have a small “spec” on his own account. –                                                 

 Yours most truly,

 W.W.D.

 Villa Combahn, Combahn pres Bonn s/Rhin, [sic]

10th February 1872.

 

SOUTHERN SENTIMENTS

(By an Old Confederate.)

 

Oh! I’m a good old Rebel,

   For better or for worse;

For “this fair land of Freedom”

   I do not care a curse.

 

I’m glad I fit agin it –

   I only wished we’d won –

And I don’t want no pardon

    For anything I’ve done.

 

I hate the “Constitution”-

   This great Republic, too;

I hate “the Freeman’s” bu-ro

   In uniform of blue;

 

I hate the nasty eagle,

   With all its brass and fuss;

I hate the Yankee nation –

    I hate ‘em wuss and wuss;

 

I hate the Yankee nation,

   And everything they do;

I hate the “Declaration”

   Of Independence, too;

 

I hate the “Glorious Union” –

   It’s dripping with our blood;

I hate their striped banner –

   I fit it all I could.

 

I followed Massa Robert

   For four years near about;

Got wounded in three places,

   And starved at Point Lookout.

 

I cotched the rheumatism

   And camped in snow and ice;

But I killed a chance o’ Yankees,

    And that was very nice.

 

Three hundred thousand Yankees

   Lie still in Southern graves –

We got three hundred thousand

   Before they made us slaves.

 

They died of Southern fever,

   Of Southern steel and shot;

I wish they were three million,

   Instead of what we got.

 

I can’t take up my musket

   And light ‘em as of yore,

But I ain’t a goin’ to love ‘em –

   That’s done for evermore.

 

Let them be “reconstructed”

    Who can’t see through a sham;

But I don’t want no pardon

   For what I was and AM.