I heard long since a simple strain;
It brought no thrill of joy or pain,
Nor did I care to hear again
Of Dixie

But time rolled on, and drum and fife
Gave token of a coming strife,
And called our youth to soldier life
In Dixie

And so our treasures, one by one,
All by the battlefield were won;
They heard at morn and setting sun
Our Dixie.

Their blood flowed on the fresh green hill,
It mingled with the mountain rill,
And poured through vales once calm and still
In Dixie.

The living rallied to their stand;
Their war cry was their "Native Land;"
But sadder from the lessening band
Came Dixie.

Yet still it roused to deeds of fame,
And made immortal many a name;
It never caused a blush of shame,
Our Dixie.

We may not hear that simple strain
Ever without a thrill of pain,
Our dead come back to live again
With Dixie.

And if I were a generous foe,
I'd honor him whose heart's best throe
Leaped to that music soft and low,
Our Dixie.

- Anonymous