Some 18,000 noble sons sleep here within these grounds,
  now quiet are their mighty guns which once roared thunderous sounds.
Their flags no longer catch the wind, their drums no charge will start,
  no bayonets will need defend the warrior’s silent heart.

On stone I read of where they fell or lived their final day,
  of where they gave the "Rebel Yell" as bullets flew their way.
In Gettysburg or Malvern Hill their last full measure gave,
  in Seven Pines or at Gaine’s Mill charged boldly to the grave.

Yet as I stroll I hear them talk, they speak beyond the years,
  to tell me of the path they walked, of victories and tears.
Their cause was not for slavery, but rather for "States’ Rights!",
  defense of Southern bravery and honor made them fight.

Their last kiss for sweetheart or wife or mother’s dear embrace,
  forsaking all they had in life, deep sorrows etched their face.
Their granny’s shriveled hand they held or heard their father’s pride,
  their children’s tears a sweet farewell, were last thoughts as some died.

A Christmas with no loved one near, rare joy could they receive,
  such lonely days devoid of cheer, still in "The Cause" believed.
With bitter cold that chilled the bone and hunger; sickness; death,
  away from family and their home, some drew their final breath.

So many names that time has lost, some fates were never told,
  they knew the price and paid the cost and died the stalwart bold.
As I gaze back through time’s turned page I hear old Dixie’s call,
  where duty, honor, courage, gauge great men who gave their all.

When I must leave and walk away a part of me stays here,
  and bivouacs with the "Boys in Gray", the brothers I hold dear.
I know now as I bid them sleep until the final roll,
  inscribed, their names will ever keep on Fame’s Immortal Scroll.

© Bill Ward 1998