O, ye men of the North, with your banner that waves
Far and wide o’er our Southland, made rugged with graves,
Are ye verily right that so well ye have sped?
Were we wronging our slaves?
Well, we bury our dead!
Ah, we bury our dead!
And granting you all you have claimed on the whole,
Are we spoiled of our birthright and stricken in soul,
To be spurned at Heaven’s court when its records are read?
Nay, expound not the scroll,