The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 97, November, 1865

You can bet your life,
As you would your knife,
And your wife, too,
He'll do
(And put 'em up at once!)—
He'll run these boats right up to their guns,
And take that Fort, or sink!

But, oh—oh, it was hot!
So thick and fast the solid shot
Upon our iron armor played,
It kept, like thunder, a kind of time—
Devil's tattoo or gallopade—
That, like an awful, awful rhyme,
Rang in the ear;
And they sent us cheer after cheer.

But the boys had been to school,
And their guns were not cool;
For they knew what Cause they served,
And not a man of 'em swerved!
But on, right on, they swept,
And from every grim bow-port
Their nutmegs and shell-barks leaped
Into the jaws of the Fort!
And (to give her, perhaps, a chance to breathe)
Knocked out some of her big, black teeth!
And (to raise a better crop, no doubt,
Than was ever raised there before)
Ploughed her up into awful creases,
Inside and out!—
For now they were up and doing the chore
At only four hundred yards,
And the death-dealing shreds and shards
Of our shell were tearing 'em all to pieces!

Hurrah for the brave old Flag!
To triumph see her ride!—
Ha, ha! they dodge and duck,—
The Snake's expiring!
Their gunners run and hide,—
By heaven, they've struck!
Down comes the rattlesnake rag
By the run,—
Stop the firing!
The work is done!—

Anyhow, she'll do for batter!—
You see now, Butternuts, you were plucky;
But that ain't "what's the matter,"—
Not by a long shot!
No, no,—no! I'll tell you what—
And you mustn't take it at all amiss—
I'll tell you what the matter is:
'Tain't because you were born unlucky,
(Bear in mind,)
Nor that you've good eyes and we are blind,—
Nothing of the kind,—
But it's something else, if it isn't more:
The reason—pardon!—you had to cotton
Was simply this: Your Cause was rotten,—
Rotten to the very core:
That's what's the matter!

But you ought to 'a' heard our water-dogs yelp!—
Just an hour and fifteen minutes!—
(Twitter away, you English linnets!)
Horizontal and perpendicular,
Fair and square, without any help,—
That is, any in particular,—
The old ferry wash-tubs of the West,
With some new-fashioned hoops, for a little test,
And a few old pounders from—Kingdom Come,
And nothing for suds but the "Nawth'n scum,"
Made these "gen'l'men" turn as white
As a head o' hair in a single night!
Cleaned their army completely out,
(We're going to give that another wipe!)
On the double-quick, by the shortest route,—
Wrung their stronghold from their gripe,—
Brought their garrison right to taw,
And made 'em get down to the "higher law"!

So that when Grant and his boys came up,
(There's places enough for a man to die!)
Swearing that we had "spoiled" their "sport,"
With a quiet twinkle in his eye,
Old Boss asked 'em to come in and sup,
And set 'em to house-keeping in the Fort!—
But all the old fellow could say or do,
They'd still keep a-going it: "Bully for you!"

"Bully" for Grant and for Foote!—
E'en if the voice must tremble,—
And "bully" for all who helped 'em to do 't!
Bully for Porter and Stemble!
For Paulding and for Walke,—
For Phelps, for Gwin, and for Shirk!—
But what's the use to talk?
They were all of 'em up to the work!