Bloody was the crimson sky
O’er pines and leafy oak
Bloody too the powdered hills
As the chimneys sputtered smoke

Stained with sunlight was the pond
The waterfall was still
Faces innocent with youth
Peered into blood-stained windowsills

Bloody were the cobbled roads
And once-silent sacred woods
Now screamed with rifle and cannon-fire
Yet still the crippled nation stood

Pure were the grieving mother’s tears
Seventeen years and buried deep
Was the boy beneath the Virginian frost
An American son in a peaceful sleep

The Southern children sang “The Banner”
While in the North its words rang true
But bloody was the American flag
In the winter of 1862.