"Good Bye, Jeff!"* (25 Mar 1865; (C) renewed 1893)

*A distinguished Southerner openly and strongly opposed
secession before the war, and these are supposed to be
his ideas at the present time.

Song & Chorus
Words and Music
by Philp Paul Bliss, 1838-1876

Cleveland, OH: S. Brainard's Sons
Plate No. 866
[Plate No. 435 5
from Chicago: Root and Cady]
[Source: 100004768@HSM/LoC]

1.
O you told me that you'd meet me at the White House Jeff,
When I left you at the Chattahoochee shore
But you're further from it now than even then, friend Jeff,
And your face isn't looking tow'rds the door.
You remember what I told you down in Georgia, don't you Jeff,
When you came to talk secession "stuff" to me,
That I thought you'd never live to see the White House, Jeff,
You believe it now, and so you're going to flee.

CHORUS [sung after each verse]
The a good bye Jeff, good bye Jeff.
I told you so before
There's a "nigger in the fence,"
And a little common sense
Tells you that you'll never figure any more.

2.
O there's nothing very cheering in the prospect Jeff,
When our cotton and our credit both are gone
And the Yankees "reconnoiter" like the mischief, Jeff,
And appropriate our cattle and our corn,
They have taken half our niggers, and are bound to free the rest,
And I wish they were in Guinea every one,
For we've got ourselves in trouble with the black men, Jeff:
Now you see, we have to give it up, and run.

3.
O I'm really sick and tired of this nonsense Jeff,
And my heart is sinking very low indeed
For our soldiers are deserting, and it seems, dear Jeff,
That we'd better pack our baggage, and "secede."
For our paper is protested, and our credit "gone to smash,"
And I don't know what to do nor where to go--
Oh! we'll never see each other at the White House, Jeff,
So we may as well meet somewhere down below.

4.
And you know the Yankee mud sill soldiers caught you, Jeff,
In a most unseemly feminine disguise,
And your Bonnet Gown and Hoop have surely taught you, Jeff,
How rediculous you look in all our eyes.
But the soul of famous Old John Brown has not stop'd marching, Jeff,
And the last of southern Chivalry we'll see,
When the echo of the Hallelujah Chorus, Jeff,
Finds you hanging on a "sour apple tree."