The Southern dead are sleeping
In a thousand Southern glens. . .
The moss and willows beckon
With the breath of Southern winds.
Though the blood-stained cross of St. Andrew
Is tattered now and furled. . .
They bore it high on every field
And o'er every ocean of the world.
It wasn't through their failing
That the gleaming turned to rust. . .
And the dreaming of a Nation
Is enshrined within their dust.
Some would have their deeds forgot,
Their monuments swept away. . .
But while Southern blood flows in our veins,
Those knaves shall never see the day.
Teach your children of their story,
Of battles, lost and won. . .
They must keep memory's light a-burning
Till Southern rivers cease to run.
The Southern dead are sleeping.
Haunted Fields, 1985