First in the fight, and first in the arms
Of the white-winged angels of glory,
With the heart of the South at the feet of God,
And his wounds to tell the story:

And the blood that flowed from his hero heart,
On the spot where he nobly perished,
Was drunk by the earth as a sacrament
In the holy cause he cherished.

In Heaven a home with the brave and blessed,
And, for his soul's sustaining,
The apocalyptic eyes of Christ--
And nothing on earth remaining,

But a handful of dust in the land of his choice,
A name in song and story,
And Fame to shout with her brazen voice,
'Died on the Field of Glory!'