Old trees, old trees！ in your mystic gloom There's many a warrior¹ laid, And many a nameless and lonely tomb Is sheltered beneath your shade. Old trees, old trees！ without pomp or prayer We buried the brave and the true, We fired a volley and left them there To rest, old trees, with you.

    Old trees, old trees！ keep watch and ward³ Over each grass-grown bed； 'Tis a glory, old trees, to stand as guard Over the Southern dead； Old trees, old trees！ we shall pass away Like the leaves you yearly shed, But ye, lone² sentinels, still must stay, Old trees, to guard "our dead".