"Them there nasty good-for-nothing Yankees!" cried old Mrs. Durden,
"Worrits me to that degree, it makes my life almost a burden.
Board our mail and seize our passengers, the ribbles! Goodness, gracious!
Like their imperence to be sure; 'tis that what makes 'em so owdacious.

"What next now I wonder, Captain?" Answer Captain Skipper made,
"Well Ma'am, our next move, I fancy, will be breaking their blockade."
"Blockhead! Ah!" exclaimed the lady. "Truer word was never spoken.
Drat the blockheads, all says I; may every head on 'em be broken!"

We Yankees ain't given to brag;
   John Bull, we expect, has no notion
Of going to war; but his flag
   If he does, we shall sweep from the ocean
And when the old vagabond lies
   In a state of teetotal prostration,
Old Ireland in glory will rise,
   Independence to win as a nation.

Our breadstuffs from England kept back,
   The sequel must be destitution.
Her famishing millions, in lack
   Of food, will force on revolution.
Victoria will have to retire;
   Aristocracy, friends of Secession
Will be hurled down, and trod in the mire;
   No more for to practise oppression.

Rebellion we'll bring to an end,
   The slaves 'mongst our heroes dividing,
Or arms to the niggers we'll lend,
   To give their darned masters a hiding.
Work up all our cotton at home,
   Let not one more bale be exported,
Have the world at our feet, like old Rome,
   By the kings of the airth as was courted.

Want money? I reckon not we;
   A national debt we'll create,
Twice as heavy as yourn, which will be,
   For Samsons like we air, no weight.
On Government bonds we shall borrow
   Any money in Europe with ease.
Why London and Paris, to-morrow
   Will lend us as much as we please.

Foreign goods we shall purchase with paper,
   Which let foreign usurers hold;
The British may swagger and vapour,
   At home whilst we keep all our gold.
As Belmont to Seward has written,
   Any stock may in Europe be "placed,"
And the chance, if the Rothschilds ain't bitten,
   Will be by the Barings embraced

We've twice before whipped all creation,
   We've now got to whip it again.
We air a remarkable nation
   Of modest, but resolute men.
John Bull, then, allow us to kick you,
   And don't go resenting the act,
Or into a cocked hat we'll lick you,
   Yes, Sir-ree, you old hoss, that's a fact.