So I Have Talked With Betsey And

There's Lots Of People - This Town Wouldn't Hold Them; Who Don't Know Much Excepting What's Told Them.

Over All Our Happy Country - Over All Our Nation Spread, Is A Band Of Noble Heroes - Is Our Army Of The Dead.

Cover Them Over With Beautiful Flowers, Deck Them With Garlands, Those Brothers Of Ours, Lying So Silent By Night And By Day Sleeping The Years Of Their Manhood Away. Give Them The Meed They Have Won In The Past; Give Them The Honors Their Future Forcast; Give Them The Chaplets They Won In The Strife; Give Them The Laurels They Lost With Their Life.

And That Was The Way The Deuce Was To Pay As It Always Is, At The Close Of The Day That Gave Us

Over The Hill To The Poor-house I'm Trudgin' My Weary Way.