It was my first personal victory in this unnatural war, my boy, and as I walked away I thought sadly of the domestic circle in the Southern Confederacy that might be waiting anxiously, tearfully, for the husband and father----him whom I had morally assassinated. And there he sprawled, denied even the simple privilege of extending a parting blessing to his children. Under ordinary circumstances, my boy, there's something deeply affecting in THE DYING SOUTHERNER'S FAREWELL TO HIS SON. My boy, my lion-hearted boy, Your father's end draws near; Already is your loss begun, And, curse it, there's a tear. I've sought to bring you up, my son, A credit to the South, And all your poker games have been An honor to us both. Though scarcely sixteen years of age, Your bowie's tickled more Than many Southerners I know At fifty and three score. You've whipped your nigger handsomely, And chewed your plug a day; And when I hear you swear, my son, What pride my eyes betray! And now, that I must leave the world, My dying words attend; But first, a chew of niggerhead, And cut it near the end. To you the old plantation goes, With mortgage, tax, and all, Though compound interest on that first, Will make the profit small. The niggers to your mother go; And if she wants to sell, You might contrive to buy her out, Should all the crops grow well. I leave you all my debts, my son, To Yankees chiefly due; But--curse the black republicans! That needn't trouble you. A true-born Southern gentleman Disdains the vulgar thought Of paying, like a Yankee clerk, For what is sold and bought. Leave that to storekeepers and fools Who never banked a card; We pay our "debts of honor," boy, Though pressed however hard. Last summer at the North I bought, Some nigger hats and shoes, And gave my note for ninety days; Forget it if you choose. The Yankee mudsills would not have Such articles to sell, If Southern liberality Had fattened them less well. The Northern dun we hung last week Had twenty dollars clear, And that, my son, is all the cash I have to give you here. But that's enough to make a start, And, if you pick your boat, A Mississippi trip or two Will set you all afloat. You play a screaming hand, my son, And push an ugly cue; Oh! these are thoughts that make me feel As dying Christians do! Keep cool, my lion-hearted boy, Till second ace is played, And then call out for brandy sour As though your pile was made. The other chaps will think you've got The tiger by the tail; And when you see them looking glum, Just call for brandy pale!