 | War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. |  |
I'M CONSCRIPTED, SMITH, CONSCRIPTED.
The following admirable parody of General Lytle's famous
poem, "I Am Dying, Egypt, Dying," was written by the late
Albert Roberts, (" John Happy ") of Nashville, Tennessee.
I'm conscripted, Smith, conscripted—
Ebb the subterfuges fast,
And the sub-enrolling marshals
Gather with the evening blast—
Let thine arms, O! Smith, support me,
Hush your gab and close your ear,
Conscript-grabbers close upon you,
Hunting for you—far and near.
Ebb the subterfuges fast,
And the sub-enrolling marshals
Gather with the evening blast—
Let thine arms, O! Smith, support me,
Hush your gab and close your ear,
Conscript-grabbers close upon you,
Hunting for you—far and near.
Though my scarred, rheumatic "trotters"
Bear me limping short no more,
And my shattered constitution
Won't exempt me as before;
Bear me limping short no more,
And my shattered constitution
Won't exempt me as before;
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Though the provost guard surround me,
Prompt to do their master's will,
I must to the "front" to perish,
Die the great conscripted still.
Prompt to do their master's will,
I must to the "front" to perish,
Die the great conscripted still.
Let not the seizer's servile minions
Mock the lion thus laid low—
'Twas no fancy drink that "slewed "him—
Whisky straight-out struck the blow.
Here, then, pillowed on thy bosom,
Ere he's hurried quite away,
Him, who, drunk with bust-head whisky,
Madly threw himself away.
Mock the lion thus laid low—
'Twas no fancy drink that "slewed "him—
Whisky straight-out struck the blow.
Here, then, pillowed on thy bosom,
Ere he's hurried quite away,
Him, who, drunk with bust-head whisky,
Madly threw himself away.
Should the base, plebeian rabble
Dare assail me as I roam,
Seek my noble squaw, Octavia,
Weeping in her widowed home;
Seek her, say the guards have got me
Under their protecting wings,
Going to make me join the army,
Where the shell and minie sings.
Dare assail me as I roam,
Seek my noble squaw, Octavia,
Weeping in her widowed home;
Seek her, say the guards have got me
Under their protecting wings,
Going to make me join the army,
Where the shell and minie sings.
I'm conscripted, Smith, conscripted—
Hark! you hear that Grabber's cry—
Run, old Smith, my boy, they'll catch you—
Take you to the front to die.
Fare thee well! I go to battle,
There to die, decay and swell.
Lockhart and Dick Taylor guard thee,
Sweet Octavia—Smith!—farewell!
Hark! you hear that Grabber's cry—
Run, old Smith, my boy, they'll catch you—
Take you to the front to die.
Fare thee well! I go to battle,
There to die, decay and swell.
Lockhart and Dick Taylor guard thee,
Sweet Octavia—Smith!—farewell!
| War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. | |