A life on the Vicksburg bluff, A home in the trenches deep, Where we dodge "Yank" shells enough-- And our old "pea-bread" won't keep. On "Old Logan's" beef I pine, For there's fat on his bones no more; Oh! give me some pork in brine, And "truck" from a sutler's store. CHORUS.--A life on the Vicksburg bluff, A home in the trenches deep, Where we dodge "Yank" shells enough-- And our old "pea-bread" won't keep, Pea-bread, pea-bread, pea-bread; Our old pea-bread won't keep. [Illustration: "So we'll bury 'Old Logan' to-night."] Old Grant is starving us out, Our grub is fast wasting away, Pemb don't know what he's about, And he hasn't for many a day. So we'll bury "Old Logan" to-night, From tough beef we'll be set free; We'll put him far out of sight-- No more of his meat for me. CHORUS. Texas "steers" are no longer in view, Mule steaks are now "done up brown," While "pea-bread," mule roast, and mule stew, Are our fare in old Vicksburg town. And the song of our hearts shall be, While the "Yanks" and their gunboats rave, A life in "bomb-proofs" for me, And a tear o'er "Old Logan's" grave. CHORUS. [Illustration] DO THEY MISS ME IN THE TRENCHES? A VICKSBURG SONG. _Air--"Do They Miss Me At Home?"_ Do they miss me in the trenches, do they miss me, When the shells fly so thickly around? Do they know that I've run down the hillside To hunt for my hole in the ground? The shell exploded so near me, It seemed best for me to run; And altho' some laugh'd as I crawfished, I could not discover the fun. I often get up in the trenches, When some Yank is near out of sight, And fire a round or two at him, To make the boys think I will fight; But when the Feds commence shelling, I run to my hole down the hill-- I'll swear my legs never would stay there, Altho' all may stay there that will. I'll save myself thro' the dread struggle, And when the great battle is o'er, I'll claim my full rations of laurels, As always I've done heretofore. I'll swear that I fought them as bravely As the best of my comrades who fell-- And swear to all others around me, That I never had fears of a shell. BOYS! KEEP YOUR POWDER DRY. Can'st tell who lose the battle, oft in the council-field? Not they who struggle bravely, not they who never yield. CHORUS.--Not they who are determined to conquer or to die, And hearken to this caution: Boys, keep your powder dry! The foe awaits you yonder! he may await you here, Have brave hearts, stand with courage; be strangers all to fear! And when the charge is given, be ready at the cry: Look well each to his priming--Boys, keep your powder dry! CHORUS.