Appomattox by King Giant Lyrics
C'mon boy --- headed to meet your maker
On a windswept field of glory --- in this Shenandoah Valley
The volleys sound --- the skies went black
The cannons blaze --- with a thunderous crack
If blood was money --- the soil would be wealthy
FROM THE KILLING FIELDS...
For their company --- they died
Young men --- young lives
Order arms --- they call
For their country --- they fall
...TO THE ROLLING HILLS
AT APPOMATTOX
Step up boy --- gonna see your brother
Across that field of glory --- in the Shenandoah Valley
Gunshots smash --- the morning air
The ghosts of Dixie --- march on young man
When the nighttime falls --- a mothers sons will be lost
FROM THE KILLING FIELDS...
(REPEAT)
...TO THE SOFT GREY WALLS
OF WILMER’S PARLOR
"On our part not a sound of trumpet more
Nor roll of drum; not a cheer, nor word
Nor whisper of vain glorying, nor motion
Of man standing again at the order, but an awed
Stillness rather, and breath holding, as if it were
The passing of the dead!" ***
Salute boy --- all the king's men
Don't know why we do it --- never owned another man
Bow their heads --- pray to die
Marching home --- side by side
When the bugles wail --- who’s pride will swell
FROM THE KILLING FIELDS...
(REPEAT)
...TO THAT SMOKEY ROOM
AT APPOMATTOX
*** Excerpt from a letter by Joshua L. Chamberlin
On a windswept field of glory --- in this Shenandoah Valley
The volleys sound --- the skies went black
The cannons blaze --- with a thunderous crack
If blood was money --- the soil would be wealthy
FROM THE KILLING FIELDS...
For their company --- they died
Young men --- young lives
Order arms --- they call
For their country --- they fall
...TO THE ROLLING HILLS
AT APPOMATTOX
Step up boy --- gonna see your brother
Across that field of glory --- in the Shenandoah Valley
Gunshots smash --- the morning air
The ghosts of Dixie --- march on young man
When the nighttime falls --- a mothers sons will be lost
FROM THE KILLING FIELDS...
(REPEAT)
...TO THE SOFT GREY WALLS
OF WILMER’S PARLOR
"On our part not a sound of trumpet more
Nor roll of drum; not a cheer, nor word
Nor whisper of vain glorying, nor motion
Of man standing again at the order, but an awed
Stillness rather, and breath holding, as if it were
The passing of the dead!" ***
Salute boy --- all the king's men
Don't know why we do it --- never owned another man
Bow their heads --- pray to die
Marching home --- side by side
When the bugles wail --- who’s pride will swell
FROM THE KILLING FIELDS...
(REPEAT)
...TO THAT SMOKEY ROOM
AT APPOMATTOX
*** Excerpt from a letter by Joshua L. Chamberlin