OE, THE WOKLD HAS CHAJS^GED. 4S 



The war waxes to fury fast, 



'Tis strife, who shall the victory win, 

 The pile grows less at every turn, 



No fiercer fight, tho' thousands slain. 



All through the clash the jug goes round, 



From mouth to mouth the goody went, 

 As fast, faster the corn would fly, 



'Till the unshucked corn was spent. 



'Tis then the victors heave a shout, 



A shout that rends the very skies, 

 Now the devil seems turned loose. 



And its now the master flies. 



For the boss is seized if found, 



Is hoisted o'er the darkey heads, • 



With shout and song they bear him round, 



To where the supper table's spread. 



In home yard, on rude table laid. 



Is fowl and shoat, and lusty pies, 

 'Possum and 'tater, many a dish. 



Canopy o'er head, God's blue sky. 



And next the fiddler thumps his strings, 



A dusky crowd round pine torch light. 

 And dance with all their might and main. 



Regardless of the fleeting night. 



There never was a happier race. 



If they could have been left alone, 

 'Twas hatred that stirred up the fuss. 



The Yanks were jealous of our bone. 



