THE BETTER PART.
We hold the fame of our Southern dead As a precious, sacred trust;And we step with a slower, lighter tread, When we pass their sleeping dust.
Their blood-stained memories enfold Our mourning hearts to-day;And we pile the marble high and cold Above their pulseless clay.
A hundred golden records shine, To tell the dead men's fame;While laurel leaflets closely twine Around each sculptured name.
Our patriotic tear-drops fall Upon their names we carve—The sire sleeps in his marble hall The while his children starve.
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