Oh, you told me that you'd meet me at the White House, Jeff,
When I left you on the Chattahoochee shore,
But you're further from it now than even then, friend Jeff,
And your face it isn't looking towards the door;
You remember what I told you down in Georgia, don't you, Jeff,
When you came to talk secession "stuff" to me,
That I thought you'd never live to see the White House, Jeff,
You believe it now, and so you're going to flee.
CHORUS:Then a good bye, Jeff, good bye Jeff,
I told you so before,
There's a "nigger in the fence," and a little common sense
Tells you that you'll never figure any more.
O, there's nothing very cheering in the prospect, Jeff,
When our cotton and our credit both are gone,
And the Yankees "reconnoiter" like the mischief, Jeff,
And appropriate our cattle and our corn;
They have taken half our niggers, and are bound to free the rest,
And I wish they were in Guinea every one;
For we've got ourselves in trouble with the black man, Jeff;
Now you see we have to give it up and run.--CHORUS
O, I'm really sick and tired of this nonsense, Jeff,
And my heart is sinking very low indeed;
For our soldiers are deserting and it seems, dear Jeff,
That we'd better pack our baggage and "secede";
For our paper is protested and our credit "gone to smash,"
And I don't know what to do or where to go--
O, we'll never see each other at the White House, Jeff,
So we may as well meet somewhere down below.--CHORUS
And you know the Yankee mudsill soldiers caught you, Jeff,
In a most unseemly feminine disguise,
And your bonnet, gown, and hoop have surely taught you, Jeff,
How ridiculous you look in all our eyes;
But the soul of famous Old John Brown has not stop'd marching, Jeff,
And the last of Southern chivalry we'll see,
When the echo of the "Hallelujah Chorus," Jeff,
Finds you hanging on a "sour apple tree."--CHORUS
Songs of the Union