There are little green beds in many a row
On our hill-sides fair and our valleys low,
And lying still in their hollows deep,
The gallant soldiers are fast asleep.
Oh, gently we tread when we pass a mound
Which under the flag is holy ground.
And over our country here and there
Those little green beds grow bright and fair
When the May flowers drop in the lap of June,
And sweet in the pastures the wild bees croon.
With banner and bugle and beat of drum,
To honor the brave, then the people come.
They come with the roses red and white,
And the starry lilies as pure as light;
They scatter the blossoms everywhere,
And the perfume thrills on the sighing air
As they wreathe with beauty each lowly mound
That under the flag is holy ground.
O children, glad as the summer skies,
With your dancing dimples and laughing eyes,
Little you dream of the wild work done
Ere the soldiers' rest in these beds was won;
And you only know that here brave ones lie
Sleeping so soundly as years go by.
Nothing they heed of the work or play
Of the busy world in the merry May.
Though life was sweet to the hero band,
They died for love of our native land;
And so we garland each lowly mound
That under the flag is holy ground.