On a dark Virginia highway, east of Richmond town
you can listen to the steamboats moaning out some distant song.
You can think about Tip Harrison, who died the night before.

And your thoughts will soon be wandering, the way they always do
when the Whigs said you should switch allegiance, you were talked into.
But you must stand up to Webster, now that old man Tip is through.

Say, here I am, in the White House again.
There I am, veto your vote.
Here I go, getting your goat again.
There I go, turn the coat

Well you walk into your office and you're strung out from the road.
You can feel the Whigs upon you, and the bull, they've got a load.
You pretend it doesn't bother you, but you just want to explode.

Most times you can't hear 'em talk, it usually falls flat.
Oh, the same old cliche, "Is he a Whig or Democrat?"
You may think you got my number, your lip will soon be fat.

Here I am, in the White House again.
There I am, veto your vote.
Here I go, getting your goat again.
There I go, turn the coat.

Out there in the Tidewater, a hundred miles away,
every Southern State, you've heard, no longer wants to play.
As the most-honored living Virginian, what now must you say?

Late in eighteen sixty-one, the laurels on your head
make the faces of those Yankee dogs turn many shades of red.
By the time the Civil War's resolved, you won't care, 'cause you'll be dead.

Here I am, in the Old Dominion.
There I am, tough old goat.
Here I go, vote for secession.
There I go, turn the coat.

Here I am, in the Old Dominion.
There I am, tough old goat.
Here I go, vote for secession.
There I go, turn the coat.