Chapter 4 No.4

Still onward we pressed, till our banners

Swept out from Atlanta's grim walls,

And the blood of the patriot dampened

The soil where the traitor-flag falls;

But we paused not to weep for the fallen,

Who slept by each river and tree,

Yet we twined them a wreath of the laurel,

As Sherman marched down to the sea!

Then sang we a song, etc.