In Southern sunny clime there is a hallowed tomb,
Where rest the ashes of a minstrel priest;
And soft winds that are laden with a sweet perfume
Their requiems for him have never ceased.
We read his songs, and hear again the tread
Of armed battalions, marching to the fray,
Or see once more the features of belovèd dead
Whose life blood crimsoned uniforms of gray!
We see the tattered banner that he loved so well
Again unfurled and fluttering in the breeze,
And once again we hear the "rebel yell"
Triumphant wafted o'er the riven trees!
O, may thy minstrel spirit find eternal rest
In some fair clime where nothing can be lost!
Where anguish never more can rend thy breast,
And fondest hope can ne'er be tempest tost!