THE LAST DITCH.

Where in the Southron's Fatherland Is that last ditch—his final stand? Is't where the James goes rolling by Used-up plantations worn and dry, Where planters lash and negroes breed, And folks on oyster memories feed? Oh! no, oh! no, oh! no, no, no! To find it you must further go. Where in the Southron's Fatherland Is that 'last ditch,' his final stand? Is't where the Mississippi runs His mighty course for many suns, To where New-Orleans fills the flat? [Ben Butler's taken charge of that] 'Tis ours—to the Gulf of Mexico, So that can't be the ditch, you know. Where in the Southron's Fatherland Is that last ditch—his final stand? Is it about Fort Donelson, Where Floyd 'skedaddled,' minus gun, Packed up his traps and stole away By night—as he had done by day? Oh! no, oh! no, oh! no, no, no! To find it you must further go. Where in the Southron's Fatherland Is that last ditch—his final stand? Is it at Nashville, Tennessee, Once more a city of the free, Where Isham Harris and his tools Thieved just two millions from the schools? Oh! no, oh! no, oh! no, no, no! To find it you must further go. Where in the Southron's Fatherland Is that last ditch—his final stand? Is't at Montgomery, where in May Hell's blackest tricks were put in play, Where right and might were overruled, And people into treason fooled? Oh! no, oh! no, oh! no, no, no! To find it you must further go. Where in the Southron's fatherland Is that last ditch—his final stand? Is it at Charleston? Time shall prove How much that precious nest we love, When, crushed to dust and damned to shame, We give the place another name. Yet 'tis not there, I tell you, no! Much further off its waters flow. Where in the Southron's Fatherland Is that last ditch—his final stand? Is it at Natchez, high or low, Or Newbern, where the pine-trees grow? Is it where ladies 'dip' and snuff, And white men feed on dirt enough? Not there, not there; far down below And further off its waters flow. Where in the Southron's Fatherland Is that last ditch—his final stand? Knowest thou a stream folks call the Styx, Round a plantation of Old Nick's, In which, as Beauregard once swore, His horse should drink when all is o'er? There, there, my Southern friend, you'll find A ditch exactly to your mind. Ay, there in truth. God! can it be That falsehood, sin and tyranny, Though eighteen hundred years be past, Still roar and revel wild and fast? Well, let them rave; thou knowest the way— 'Tis darkest ere the dawn of day, And well we know, whate'er befall, Where runs the ditch to hide them all!