[From Harding's Musical Treasury No. 11.]
"Jeff Davis" (1862)
A New Irish Song of the times.
Written and Sung by
T. L. Donnelly,
  Vocalist & Commedian.
Respectfully Dedicated to
Capt. W. A. Ketchum,
  15th Regt. N.Y.S.V. by the Author.
Arranged by Emil Stadler.

New York: E. H. Harding
[Sources: 088/102@Levy [missing page 2 of 3 pages];
& 200007@LoC/CWS(IHAS)]

1. ’Oh! once I could eat my fill of good meat,
  And whiskey galore, I could roule in to me,
I could streel up and down ev’ry street in this town,
  With always a quarter to go on a spree.
My clothes they were good, I ne’er thought I would,
  A pick or a spade, Ne’er enter’d my mind,
But now I’m in grief, Since that blackhearted thief,
  Jeff Davis, he brought these hard times upon me.

CHORUS [sung after VERSE 1 to 3]
Oh!  bad luck to him early,
Bad luck to him dearly,
may the devil admire him,
Where e’er he may be;
May mosquitoes smite him,
And Rattle snakes bite him,
The traitor that brought these hard times upon me.

2. Oh! I walk up and down every street in the town,
  And the devil a smell of a glass can I get,
Oh! go every where to ease my despair,
  But the hunger, begor Keeps me in a big sweat,
Of my Clothes there’s as much as would boulster a Crutch,
  And my Shirt wants a rivet or two in each Seam.
May the hangman be brief when he Swings that old thief,
  Jeff Davis, that brought these hard times upon me.

3. So badly I’m broke, I can’t raise a smoke,
  Not even a pin can I find in the street,
Nor a stump of Cigar tho I search near and far
  Oh! there made into Cloth it is my belief!
The Oyster Bay Swells Sometimes give me some shells,
  To polish my teeth on by Way of a Snack,
My stomach gets riley, and then I curse wildly,
  Jeff Davis, that brought these hard time upon me.

4. Oh! I’ll spit in my fist, and then I’ll enlist,
  And off to the wars I’ll march bould as brass,
I’ll fight till I die, and e’er I will fly
  I’ll measure the length of my self on the grass!
Like a brigadier private I’ll rush on the foe
  And I’ll slather the rebels both high and low!
Oh it’s then I’ll Knock blazes out of Jefferson Davis,
  The Traitor that brought these hard times upon me.

CHORUS 4 [only]
 May his trees nev-er bear,
  May his head have no hair,
May bun-ions like on-ions,
  Grow out of his feet,
May Dr. Tumble-ty Drug him,
  And John Heen-an plug him,
The trai-tor that brought
  These hard times up-on me.