Farewell, my Lila.
I'll write every evening.
I've carved our names,
In the trunk of this tree.
Farewell, my Lila.
I miss you already,
And dream of the day,
When I'll hold you again,
In a home safe from fear,
When the Southland is free.
I go to fight,
For these old hills behind me,
These old red hills of home.
I go to fight,
For these old hills remind me,
Of a way of life that's pure,
Of the truth that must endure,
In a town called Marrietta,
In the old red hills of home.
Pray on this day,
As I journey beyond them,
These old red hills of home.
Let all the blood,
Of the North spill upon them,
'Till they've paid for what they've wrought,
Taken back the lies they've taught,
And there's peace in Marrietta,
And we're safe again in Georgia,
In the land where honor lives and breathes,
The old red hills of home.
Farewell, my Lila.
Farewell.
Look there, my Lila.
They call me to tell it:
The lives that we led,
When the Southland was free.
We gave our lives for the old hills of Georgia,
The old red hills of home.
Not much survives of the old hills of Georgia,
But I close my eyes and hear,
All the treasures we held dear:
The rushing of the Chattahoochie,
(The tall pines and the red clay)
The rustling in the wind,
(The blue skies and the dogwood trees)
And Mama in the kitchen singin',
(A man can grow his cotton)
And me and Lila swinging in a tree.
(And his crops)
Oh I hear it calling, calling,
(Still!)
And I would gladly give,
My good right leg again.
Again!
(Again)
God bless the sight,
Of the old hills of Georgia,
The old red hills of home,
(Kneel down to)
Praise those who'd fight,
For the old hills of Georgia.
For those proud and valient men,
We'll sing Dixie once again,
For the men of Marrietta,
For the brothers of Cobb County,
For the fathers of Atlanta,
For the patriarchs,
Who gave everything for Georgia,
And the old red hills of home.

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