‘ 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 was n'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!’