 | War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. |  |
TO GO OR NOT TO GO.
The following racy parody on Hamlet's famous soliloquy
appeared during the war in the Confederate Union. The
merciless satire was dedicated to the "Exempts," and the writer
of it signed himself "Exempt." The verses constitute an
admirable companion-piece to the late lamented Albert Roberts
parody, given elsewhere in this collection.
To go or not to go, that is the question:
Whether it pays best to suffer pestering
By idle girls and garrulous old women,
Or to take up arms against a host of Yankees,
And by opposing get killed—to die, to sleep—
(Get out! ) and in this sleep to say we "sink
To rest by all our country's wishes blest"
And live forever (that's a consummation,
Just what I'm after). To march, to fight—
To fight! Perchance to die—aye, there's the rub!
For while I'm asleep who'd take care of Mary
And the babes—when Bill is in the low ground—
Who'd feed 'em, eh? There's the respect
I have for them that makes life sweet;
For who would bear the bag to mill,
Plow Dobbin, cut the wheat, dig "taters,"
Kill hogs, and do all sort of drudgery,
If I am fool enough to get a Yankee
Bullet in my brain! Who'd cry for me?
Would patriotism pay my debts, when dead?
But oh! the dread of something after death—
That undiscovered fellow who'd court Mary,
And do my hugging—that's agony,
And makes me want to stay at home,
'Specially as I ain't mad with nobody.
Whether it pays best to suffer pestering
By idle girls and garrulous old women,
Or to take up arms against a host of Yankees,
And by opposing get killed—to die, to sleep—
(Get out! ) and in this sleep to say we "sink
To rest by all our country's wishes blest"
And live forever (that's a consummation,
Just what I'm after). To march, to fight—
To fight! Perchance to die—aye, there's the rub!
For while I'm asleep who'd take care of Mary
And the babes—when Bill is in the low ground—
Who'd feed 'em, eh? There's the respect
I have for them that makes life sweet;
For who would bear the bag to mill,
Plow Dobbin, cut the wheat, dig "taters,"
Kill hogs, and do all sort of drudgery,
If I am fool enough to get a Yankee
Bullet in my brain! Who'd cry for me?
Would patriotism pay my debts, when dead?
But oh! the dread of something after death—
That undiscovered fellow who'd court Mary,
And do my hugging—that's agony,
And makes me want to stay at home,
'Specially as I ain't mad with nobody.
179
Shells and bullets make cowards of us all;
And blamed my skin if snortin' steeds,
And pomp and circumstance of war
Are to be compared with feather-bed,
And Mary by my side.
And blamed my skin if snortin' steeds,
And pomp and circumstance of war
Are to be compared with feather-bed,
And Mary by my side.
| War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. | |