---

C'mon boy --- headed to meet your maker

on a windswept field of glory --- in this Shenandoah Valley

the volleys sound --- the skies went black

the cannons blaze --- with a thunderous crack

if blood was money --- the soil would be wealthy

FROM THE KILLING FIELDS...

for their company --- they died

young men --- young lives

order arms --- they call

for their country --- they fall

...TO THE ROLLING HILLS

AT APPOMATTOX

step up boy --- gonna see your brother

across that field of glory --- in the Shenandoah Valley

gunshots smash --- the morning air

the ghosts of Dixie --- march on young man

when the nighttime falls --- a mothers sons will be lost

FROM THE KILLING FIELDS...

(REPEAT)

...TO THE SOFT GREY WALLS

OF WILMER'S PARLOR

"On our part not a sound of trumpet more,

Nor roll of drum; not a cheer, nor word

nor whisper of vain glorying, nor motion

of man standing again at the order, but an awed

stillness rather, and breath holding, as if it were

the passing of the dead!" ***

salute boy --- all the king's men

don't know why we do it --- never owned another man

bow their heads --- pray to die

marching home --- side by side

when the bugles wail --- who's pride will swell

FROM THE KILLING FIELDS...

(REPEAT)

...TO THAT SMOKEY ROOM

AT APPOMATTOX

*** Excerpt from a letter by Joshua L. Chamberlin