All is quiet on the Bacston Front.
The soldiers are quiet; waiting for the next word.
Waiting for the next call to battle.
For they want to fight for their country, like flight wants a bird.
Waiting for when they will next ride the saddle.

You can see their readiness in their eyes.
They are here to fight for their country; against the king.
They fight through hell, and shout the battle cries.
They face the call to fight, as they know what it will bring.

The enemy has sounded the retreat.
Has left the battlefield in a wave of desperation.
Feeling the pains of having to accept defeat.
Blood has become part of their respiration.

These soldiers have marched great distances.
Giving their life for their country is their sacred pledge.
When they face hate, they fear to not put up resistance.
For our freedom they must dredge.

They load, and re-load their guns.
Around them muskets are blazing like a living hell.
They are fighting to create a country that will outlive their son’s sons.
Now as you walk this field, you can’t tell where they once fell.

Now all is quiet on the Bacston Front- the battle is done.
The fighting has ceased; quiet has at last come.
There is a hush upon the field.
The sun sets.