Washington, DC, 1999.
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A NEW
NATIONAL SONG,
Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1864, by G. R. Lillibridge, in the Clerk's Office o the District Court of Michigan, at Detroit.
“
We're coming, Father Abraham!
”—three millions, sir, or more,
To vote at next “
Election sure,
”—(don't lock the White House door,)
For, “LITTLE MAC” and PENDLETON, our banner bearers true,
Will teach Usurper of our Rights what Democrats can do.
So, pile up, now, the agony, while yet you have the chance,
For, on the fourth of March next, you'll OUT, sir, have to dance;
As horses we are going to swap, and in new harness bright,
They will appear, in March next, to battle with their might.
“
We're coming, Father Abraham!
”—three millions, sir, or more,
To vote again, for
Speech
and
Press,
their freedom to restore,
The “
Constitution as it is,
” our watchword and our cry,
Likewise, the “
Union as it was,
” we'll battle for or die.
With BALLOTS 'stead of bullets we'll quickly end our strife
The “
Rights of man!
” our motto be, defended with our life.
We'll abolition fanatics lay prostrate in the dust,
And bid farewell to Abraham (styl'd “
Abraham the first!
”)
“
We're coming, Father Abraham!
”—three millions, sir, or more,
Republicans and Old Line Whigs, with Democrats before
To lead them to the ballot box will be our great delight,
Instead of to the cannon's mouth, for nigger
rose
to fight.
Yes, horses we are going to swap, nor yield to dastard fears,
While crossing o'er your stream of blood now swell'd by orphans' tears.
If you've been joking, Abraham, while crossing o'er this stream,
Democracy was serious, far more than you can deem.
‘
We're coming, Father Abraham!
”—three millions, sir, or more,
Republicans (non-radical) some twenty thousand score,
And to our
Train
we'll
Link on
those who before were Whigs,
And we will beat all Shoddy-dom, Fanatics and their niggs.
An agonised nation shouts our wrong'd M'CLELLAN's name,
While week-kneed tyrants mourn to see the record of his fame.
For results of next Election we have no doubts or fears,
So, when you're OUT, in March next, go stanch the widows' tears.
“
We're coming, Father Abraham!
”—three millions, sir, or more,
From Atlantic's angry waters to broad Pacific's shore
The campaign's fairly open'd, the millions now rejoice
For “LITTLE MAC.” and PENDLETON, the People's joy and choice.
They, from hill tops and from valleys, will ballot trophies bring,
“
Down with tyranic oppression!
” they'll in November sing.
'Twill “
remind you of a story,
” of crossing on a rope
With barrow full of horrors dire, and
how
and
when
it broke.
“
We're coming, Father Abraham!
”—three millions, sir, or more,
Our leaders, the TWO GEORGES, unstain'd by tears and gore,
With clean hands and reputations the Union they'll maintain,
Our Constitution, glorious, they'll manfully sustain.
The olive branch of Peace still blooms—a plant you'll not discern,
The symbol in all loyal hearts, “
to whom it may concern!
”
Our Ship of State afloat we'll get, and in smooth waters sail,
Again the envy of the world, she'll weather ev'ry gale.
“
We're coming, Father Abraham!
”—three millions, sir, or more,
Get your Scotch disguise all ready, the previous one you wore,
When by vote of minority you took Usurper's stand,
To show Columbia's toiling sons how you would rule the land,
The land that flow'd with plenty—since has flow'd with tears and blood,
Enough to float our navy, if in concentrated flood.
Get
Proclamation
ready, and to the world announce,
That, henceforth,
Proclamations
you ever will renounce.
13Jan 1865
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