Muldrough’s Hill, or the Soldier’s Complaint
Written by Private John E. Richardson, Company F, 9th Michigan Volunteer Infantry (1861)
Tune: “Hard Times Come Again No More”

Come listen kind friends a while to my song,
And I will unfold a tale of my wrongs,
Of labors severe and likewise the swill,
Endured by the soldiers on old Muldrough Hill.

Chorus:
It’s hard times on Muldrough Hill,
It’s hard times I say.

We rise in the morning at five of the clock
And make our hard bed of the butts of cornstalks,
Then down in the valley we all trudge again,
To wash off the filth that in camp we have gained.

Then when we have washed, we climb up the hill,
And every man carries his legs at his will,
But once at the summit our strength is all gone,
And go fast or go slow we are fain to sit down.

We rest half an hour then our labor begins,
And the first we commence at is working our chins,
Or in terms more explicit that you’ll understand,
We partake of a breakfast the cream of the land.

And now give redoubled attention a while,
And I’ll dish up the breakfast in excellent style,
To strengthen your courage and stomach also,
For the sumptuous repast you’re about to review.

The first on the hill to age and in strength,
Is a side of fat bacon full three feet in length,
With a crust on the surface to keep in the oil,
A plump inch in thickness of Kentucky soil.

Then as to its age we are all in the dark,
But suppose it was smoked in the flues of the ark,
And I think ’tis the case tho I don’t recollect,
Each man as he eats doffs his cap in respect.

The next thing in order are crackers so hard,
Cut out with a chisel in shape like a card,
Punched full of small holes to make it more brittle,
To crumb in the coffee that’s stewed in the kettle.

The kettle so rusty and dirty to match,
Not fit to make slop for the very old scratch,
But that which a digger or dog wouldn’t eat,
Is thought by the soldier a deuce of a treat.

But kind friends have patience, don’t think I have done,
Tho I’ve dealt out the rations I’ve only begun,
For when we’ve ate breakfast, we trudge off to work,
To stand upon guard or to dig in the dirt.

On guard we must go every third day or less,
Where all sorts of men are mixed up in a mess,
And when off our posts we endeavor to sleep,
And get ourselves curled all up in a heap.

Just as we get into a comfortable snooze,
Along comes the Sergeant and raises the deuce,