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BOW ARE YOU, GREENBACKS?
HOW ARE YOU, GREENBACKS?
Banjo-Solo. Song by W. S. Budworth
We are coming, Father Abraham,
One hundred millions more— Five hundred presses printing us,
From morn till night is o'er. Like magic you will see us start,
To scatter through the land, And pay the soldier, or release
The border contraband.
chorus—With our promise to pay—
How are you, Secretary Chase ? Promise to pay—
That's what's the matter!
We are coming, Father Abraham,
One hundred millions more, And cash was ne'er so easily
Evoked from rags before— To line the fat contractor's purse, '
Or purchase transport-craft, Whose weak and rotten hulks shall sink
Before the winds begin to waft!
With our promise to pay— How are you, Gideon Welles, Esquire?
Promise to pay—• Can't you fix yhe date ?
We are coming, Father Abraham,
One hundred millions more; I hope a present blessing,
Though perhaps a future bore. The simple terms on which we come
Are hardly worth a fuss; Now, "Abe," as we may "Father" you,
We hope you will father us! • |
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