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William McCarty, comp. The American National Song Book. 1842.

Maine Battle Song

COME, sogers! take your muskets up;

And grasp your faithful rifles;

We’re gwoin to lick the red coat men,

Who call us Yankees, “trifles.”

Bring out the big gun made of brass,

Which forges July thunder;

Bring out the flag of Bennington,

And strike the foe with wonder.

We’ll lick the red coats, any how,

And drive them from the border;

The loggers are awake—and all

Await the gin’ral’s order;

Britannia shall not rule the Maine,

Nor shall she rule the water,

They’ve sung that song full long enough,

Much longer than they oughter.

The Aroostook’s a right slick stream,

Has nation sights of woodlands,

And hang the feller that would lose

His footing on such good lands.

And all along the boundary line,

There’s pasturing for cattle;

But where that line of boundary is,

We must decide by battle.

We do not care about the land,

But they shan’t hook it from us;

Our country, right or wrong, we cry—

No budging or compromise.

So—beat the sheepskin—blow the fife,

And march in training order;

Our way is through the wilderness,

And all along the border.