I place my knapsack on my back,
My rifle on my shoulder.
March away to the firing line,
To kill that Yankee soldier.
I'll kill that Yankee soldier.
March away to the firing line,
To kill that Yankee soldier.
I bid farewell to my wife and child,
Farewell to my aging mother.
Go and join in the bloody strife,
Till' this cruel war is over.
Till' this cruel war is over.
Go and join in the bloody strife,
Till' this cruel war is over.
If I am shot on the battlefield,
Then I shall not recover.
Who will protect my wife and child,
And care for my aging mother?
Who'll care for my aging mother?
Who will protect my wife and child,
And care for my aging mother?
And if our Southern cause is lost,
If Southern rights denied us,
We'll be ground beneath the tyrant's heel,
For our demands of justice.
For our demands of justice.
Ground beneath the tyrant's heel,
For our demands of justice.
I place my knapsack on my back,
My rifle on my shoulder.
March away to the firing line,
To kill that Yankee soldier.
I'll kill that Yankee soldier.
March away to the firing lines,
And I'll kill that Yankee soldier.