Oh ! The dead cry out from bloodied ground,

muskets make a thundering sound,

thousands fall in line,

hoofbeats pound the earth in rhyme,

Northern and Southern brothers

against each other,

the smoke of fire shall smother.

Thousands are dead at slavery’s hand,

the playing of “Dixie” in the army band,

Oh ! The dead cry out from bloodied ground,

muskets make a thundering sound.