Our camp fires shone bright on the mountain
That frowned on the river below,
As we stood by our guns in the morning,
And eagerly watched for the foe.
When a rider came out from the darkness,
That hung over mountain and tree,
And shouted, boys up and be ready,
For Sherman will march to the sea . . .
Still onward we pressed, till our banner,
Swept out from Atlanta’s grim walls,
And the blood of the patriot dampened
The soil where the traitor flag falls,
But we pause not to weep for the fallen,
That sleep by each river and tree,
But we twined them a wreath of the laurel
As Sherman marched down to the sea.