As chanted by Gideon J. Pillow and his boys on retreating from Lafayette, Georgia, June 24, 1864.
TELL me not, in boastful twaddle,
Yankees five by one “Confed”
Are unnerved and made skedaddle,
With coat-tail as high as head.
“Feds” will fight–a bold defender
In each member of their ranks;
That they readily surrender,
Can’t be spoken of the “Yanks.”
‘Twas enjoyment, and not sorrow,
That we hoped to reap to-day;
Certain that before the morrow
We should march the Yanks away.
Without bloodshed, without battle,
In their bivouac so nice,
We would pen them like dumb cattle,
Gobble all up in a trice.
But their bullets now remind us
We should all be making tracks,
And, departing, leave behind us–
Far behind–those deadly “cracks.”
Deadly, and perhaps some other
Fell shots may increase our slain;
Many a fallen, war-wrecked brother
Never can take aim again.
‘Stride our horses let’s be jumping,
While our hearts we thought so brave,
Like unmuffled drums, are thumping,
And our knees are like to cave.
Trust no shelter, howe’er pleasant!
Let the Yankees bury our dead!
Run! run! in this dreadful present,
Bullets whizzing overhead!
Let us, too continue going,
Spur our “plugs” to fastest gait:
For the blue-coats are pursuing,
And we’ve had “enough” of late.