Charlie Sullivan is dead,
Put down by the ringer, King Death,
His stone is all broken,
His shears are all gaped,
His oil stone is worn out and wet.
He never was one to look down on a chap,
No matter his country or creed,
He would always part up, tucker or nap,
And was good for a pipeful of weed.
His soul is not lost,
It belongs to the Union,
May he get a good cut,
Now the river he has crossed,
And his union ticket be good over there.