Unreconstructed Rebel or I'm A Good Old Rebel

It was originally printed in 1914 in Collier's Weekly. The words are by Major Innes Randolph, a member of J.E.B. Stuart's staff.

 

Oh, I'm a good old Rebel

Now that's just what I am

For this fair land of freedom

I do not care a damn.

I'm glad I fought against it

I only wish we'd won.

And I don't want no pardon

For anything I've done.

 

I hates the Constitution

This great Republic too

I hates the Freedmen's Bureau

In uniforms of blue.

I hates the nasty eagle

With all his brag and fuss

But the lyin', thievin' Yankees

I hates' em worse and worse

 

Three hundred thousand Yankees

Lies still in Southern dust

We got three hundred thousand

Before they conquered us

They died of Southern fever

And Southern steel and shot

I wish they was three million

Instead of what we got.

 

I can't take up my musket

And fight' em now no more

But I ain't a-goin' to love' em

Now that is certain sure

And I don't want no pardon

For what I was and am

And I won't be reconstructed

And I do not give a damn.

This is the version in "As Felt in the Hearts" Poems of the Confederacy published by Hampton M. Jarrell for the York County Confederate War Centennial Commission.

I'm A Good Old Rebel

Oh, I'm a good old Rebel

Now that's just what I am

For this fair land of freedom

I do not care a damn.

I'm glad I fit against it

I only wish we'd won.

And I don't want no pardon

For anything I've done.

 

I hate the Constitution

This great Republic too

I hate the Freedmen's Buro

In uniforms of blue.

I hate the nasty eagle

With all his brag and fuss

But the lyin', thievin' Yankees

I hate 'em wuss and wuss.

 

I hate the Yankee nation

And everything they do;

I hate the Declaration

of Independence, too.

I hate the glorious Union,

'Tis dripping with our blood;

I hate the striped banner,

I fit it all I could.

 

I followed Old Marse Robert

For four years near about,

Got wounded in three places,

And starved on Point Lookout.

I caught the rheumatism

a camping in the snow,

But if I killed a chance of Yankees,

I'd like to kill some more.

 

Three hundred thousand Yankees

Lies still in Southern dust

We got three hundred thousand

Before they conquered us

They died of Southern fever

And Southern steel and shot

I wish it was three million

Instead of what we got.

I can't take up my musket

And fight' em now no mo'

But I ain't a-goin'to love' em

Now that is certain sho'

And I don't want no pardon

For what I was and am

And I won't be reconstructed

And I don't give a damn.

Music and lyrics used with permission from Lesley Nelson's Folk Music Site midi file by Barry Taylor, Information and lyrics From Digital Tradition Folk Song Database.