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The Brass-Mounted Army Oh, whiskey is the monster That ruins grcat an' small, But in old Kerby's army Headquarters gets it all. Oh, how do you like the army, The brass-mounted army, The high-fallutin' army, Where eagle buttons rule? They drink it when it's plenty, Although they drink it hard, But if a private touches it They put him under guard. Our army is more richer Than when the war begun, Furnishes three tables, An' then they set but one. The first is richly laden Of chicken, goose, an' duck, The next is pork an' mutton, The third is pore old buck. Our generals eat the poultry, They git it very cheap; Our colonels an' our captains Devours the hogs an' sheep. Our soldiers git so hungry They're bound to press a pig; The biggest stump in Dixie They're sure to have to dig. But when we are a-marchin', The order number blank, lt makes the private soldier Forever stay in rank . On every big plantation Or a nigger-holder's yard, Just to save his property, Our generals place a guard . An' now my song is ended, lt's beautiful an' true; The pore men an' the widders Must have a line or two. But there no guard is stationed, Their fence is often burned; Their property's molested, As long ago we learned . tune: variant on Wait for the Wagon From Ozark Folksongs, Packard. Collected from Judy Jane Whittaker, MO, 1928 RG
Thanks to Mudcat for the Digital Tradition!