I looked and poor Fed was dead. The other
rooster had popped both gaffs through his head. He was a dead rooster;
yea, a dead cock in the pit. Tom went and picked up his rooster, and
said, "Poor Fed, I loved you; you used to crow every morning at daylight
to wake me up. I have carried you a long time, but, alas! alas! poor Fed,
your days are numbered, and those who fight will sometimes be slain.
Now, friends, conscripts, countrymen, if you have any tears to shed,
prepare to shed them now. I will not bury Fed. The evil that roosters
do live after them, but the good is oft interred with their bones.
So let it not be with Confed. Confed left no will, but I will pick him,
and fry him, and dip my biscuit in his gravy. Poor Fed, Confed,
Confederacy, I place one hand on my heart and one on my head, regretting
that I have not another to place on my stomach, and whisper, softly
whisper, in the most doleful accents, Good-bye, farewell, a long
farewell."
"Not a laugh was heard--not even a joke--
As the dead rooster in the camp-kettle they hurried;
For Tom had lost ten dollars, and was broke,
In the cock-pit where Confed was buried.
"They cooked him slowly in the middle of the day,
As the frying-pan they were solemnly turning;
The hungry fellows looking at him as he lay,
With one side raw, the other burning.
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