Off of center,
In harvest fields..
Stands alone,
The old oak tree.
Draped in garland,
Spanish moss..
Swaying in the gentle breeze,
Stands alone,
The old oak tree.
Older than the country,
Younger than the hills..
Witness to the battles,
The fields where blood did spill.
Alone it stands,
In the field..
Where those who died..
Still wander here.