Who are the men that clamor most Against the war, its cause and cost, And who Jeff Davis sometimes toast? The Copperheads. Who, when by wretched whiskey tight, Hiss out in rage their venomed spite, Who crawl and sting, but never fight? The Copperheads. Who hold peace meetings, where they pass Lengthy resolves of wind and gas, Much like the bray of Balaam's ass? The Copperheads. Who, when false faction is forgot, When patriots keep a common thought, Have discord and dissension taught? The Copperheads. Who swear by bondage, and would see Rather their country lost than free, Who dread the name of Liberty? The Copperheads. Who hate a freedom-loving press, The truth, and all who it profess, Who don't believe in our success? The Copperheads. And who, when Right has won the day, Will take their slimy selves away, And in their dirty holes will stay? The Copperheads. And who will be the hiss and scorn Of generations yet unborn, Hated, despised, disgraced, forlorn? The Copperheads.

The Home Front