“ We’ll hang Jeff Davis on a sour-apple tree. ” Double-roll on the snare-drums, double squeal of the fife, “ We’ll hang Jeff Davis on a sour-apple tree! ” Clash of the cymbals zinging, throaty blare of cornets, “ We’ll hang Jeff Davis on a sour-apple tree! ” “ On to Richmond! On to Richmond! On to Richmond! ” “ Yeah! There they come! Yeah! Yeah! ” And they came, the bearskin drum-major leading the band, Twirling his silver-balled baton with turkey-cock pomp, The cornet-blowers, the ranks. The drum-major was fine,