They sleep among the tender grass, they slumber 'neath the pines,
They're camping in the mountain pass where crouched the serried lines;
They rest where loud the tempests blow, destructive in their glee—
The men who followed long ago the swords of Grant and Lee.
Their graves are lying side by side where once they met as foes,
And where they in the wildwood died springs up a blood-red rose;
O'er them the bee on golden wing doth flit, and in yon tree
A gentle robin seems to sing to them of Grant and Lee.
To-day no strifes of sections rise, to-day no shadows fall
Upon our land, and 'neath the skies one flag waves over all;