Bugles are calling, from prairie to shore;
"Sign up!" and "Fall in!", and march off to war.
Blue grass and cotton, burned and forgotten;
All hope seems gone, so soldier march off to die
Bugles are calling, from prairie to shore;
"Sign up!" and "Fall in!", and march off to war.
There in the distance, a flag I can see;
Scorched and in ribbons, but whose can it be?
How ends the story, whose is the glory?
Ask if we dare, our comrades out there to sleep.