Ye spirits of the glorious dead!
Ye watchers in the sky!
Who sought the patriot's crimson bed,
With holy trust and high--
Come, lend your inspiration now,
Come, fire each Southern son,
Who nobly fights for freemen's rights,
And shouts for sixty-one.
Come, teach them how on hill, on glade,
Quick leaping from your side,
The lightning flash of sabers made
A red and flowing tide;
How well ye fought, how bravely fell,
Beneath our burning sun,
And let the lyre, in strains of fire,
So speak of sixty-one.
There's many a grave in all the land,
And many a crucifix,
Which tells how that heroic band
Stood firm in seventy-six--
Ye heroes of the deathless past,
Your glorious race is run,
But from your dust springs freemen's trust,
And blows for sixty-one.
We build our altars where you lie,
On many a verdant sod,
With sabers pointing to the sky,
And sanctified of God;
The smoke shall rise from every pile,
Till Freedom's cause is won,
And every mouth throughout the South
Shall shout for sixty-one!