Confederate Memorial Day

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.