The whip-poor-will is calling
From its perch on splintered limb,
And the plaintive notes are echoing
Through the aisles of the forest dim;
The slanting threads of starlight
Are slivering shrub and tree,
And the spot where the loved are sleeping,
In the woods of Tennessee.

The leaves are gently rustling,
But they’re stained with a tinge of red–
For they proved to many a soldier
Their last and lonely bed.
As they prayed in mortal agony
To God to set them free,
Death touched them with his finger
In the woods of Tennessee.

In the list of the killed and wounded,
Ah, me! alas! we saw
The name of our noble brother,
Who went to the Southern war.
He fell in the tide of battle
On the banks of the old “Hatchie,”
And rests ‘neath the wild grape arbors
In the woods of Tennessee.

There’s many still forms lying
In their forgotten graves,
On the green slope of the hill-sides,
Along Potomac’s waves;
But the memory will be ever sweet
Of him so dear to me,
On his country’s altar offered,
In the woods of Tennessee.

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