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.