And as one,” he sighed, “of our martial lads, I’d rather be chargin’ Columbiads, Than actin’ sweet to some old smooth-bore When he tells me how he could win the War By burnin’ the next Yank crossroads-store. The Yanks aren’t always too blame polite, But they fight like sin when they’ve got to fight, And after they’ve almost nailed your hide To your stinkin’ saddle in some ole ride, It makes you mad when some nice home-guard Tells you they nevah could combat hard. I have no desire to complain or trouble But I’d find this conflict as comfortable As a big green pond for a duck to swim in, If it wasn’t for leave, and the lovin’ women.”