‘TALK of pluck!’ pursued the Sailor,
Set at euchre on his elbow,
‘I was on the wharf at Charleston,
Just ashore from off the runner.
‘It was grey and dirty weather,
And I heard a drum go rolling,
Rub-a-dubbing in the distance,
Awful dour-like and defiant.
‘In and out among the cotton,
Mud, and chains, and stores, and anchors,
Tramped a squad of battered scarecrows—
Poor old Dixie’s bottom dollar!
‘Some had shoes, but all had rifles,
Them that wasn’t bald was beardless,
And the drum was rolling Dixie,
And they stepped to it like men, sir!
‘Rags and tatters, belts and bayonets,
On they swung, the drum a-rolling,
Mum and sour. It looked like fighting,
And they meant it too, by thunder!’