"Bury me on the field, boys," and away to the glorious fight, You will come again this way, boys, in your triumph-march to-night But when you pass this spot, boys, I would not have you sigh-- In holy cause of country, boys, who would not gladly die!
"Bury me on the field, boys," where a soldier loves to rest, And sweet shall be my sleep, boys, upon my country's breast, For she is dearer, far, boys, that aught this world can give, And gladly do I die, boys, that she may proudly live.
"Bury me on the field, boys," and then to make a stand, That shall loose the tyrant's grip, boys, from our Southern, sunny land, And teach the foul invaders, boys, in Freedom's holy strife, The Southern heart will sever, boys, the findest ties of life.
"Bury me on the field, boys," then on to meet the foe, Hands that have dug a grave, boys, shall lay their legions low, Eyes that have wept at dawn, boys, shall smile at close of day, For Southern hearts shall triumph, boys, in the Northerner's dismay.
"Bury me on the field, boys," I do not die in vain, From Freedom's rose shall bloom, boys, from out this bloody rain, And soon the South shall rise, boys, all glorious and fair, With sun-bright rays around her, boys, and stars upon her hair!
"Bury me on the field, boys"--this vision bright and sweet Was surely sent to cheer me, boys, in this my own defeat: Here, take my trembling hand, boys--I thank you for your care, And let each soldier heart, boys, ascend with mine in prayer:
From the battle-field of life, boys, all wounded, weary, sore, Pray that my fainting soul, boys, may reach the heavenly shore, And in that land of Peace, boys, the weary may find rest, And the poor repentant soldier, boys, find shelter 'mong the blest,
"Bury me on the field, boys," for life is ebbing fast, One moment more of pain, boys, and then the trial's past-- I cannot see you now, boys--there's a mist before my sight, But hark! I hear sweet music, boys--Thank God, We've won the fight!
