The marching armies of the past Along our Southern plains,
Are sleeping now in quiet rest Beneath the Southern rains.
The bugle call is now in vain To rouse them from their bed;
To arms they'll never march again— They are sleeping with the dead.
No more will Shiloh's plains be stained With blood our heroes shed,
Nor Chancellorsville resound again To our noble warriors' tread.
For them no more shall reveille Sound at the break of dawn,
But may their sleep peaceful be Till God's great judgment morn.
We bow our heads in solemn prayer For those who wore the gray,
And clasp again their unseen hands On our Memorial Day.
