Breck on Fusion.

39

Song performed by: Joseph Trahey (vocals), Tara Dirst (banjo) and Matt Dotson (Recorder). Recording engineer: Matt Dotson.

Air -- Yankee Doodle.

Said Breck to Dug, my little man,
My gallant bantam rooster;
I have, methinks, a little plan
To give our cause a booster.

Chorus to each verse
The Union, Steve, we're bound to save,
(I mean the Public Plunder!)
The spoils of office we must have
If Freedom goes to thunder.

You know I always liked you well,
And always praised your pluck, Steve.
And though from J.B.'s grace you fell,
I never have you struck, Steve.

The tarnal Nigger having placed
Us hostile to each other,
Of course we must profess we've chased
For years each one the other.

And having thus prepared the wool,
To cloud the South's sharp peepers,
We must unite, the North to fool,
And make it mind its keepers.

I want your votes – that's so, my boy.
Without them Abe will beat me,
Now, can't I get you, brave old boy,
With smiles once more to greet me?

Just let our friends arrange the thing,
A sort of Fusion Ticket,
And in November I'll be King,
For Lincoln cannot lick it.

Then let your "mere abstractions" go,
Let's rally round the banner
Of Shamocratic Faith, and show
The world our loving manner.