* * * * *
STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY
Come, stack arms, men; pile on the rails;
Stir up the camp-fire bright!
No growling if the canteen fails:
We'll make a roaring night.
Here Shenandoah brawls along,
There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,
To swell the Brigade's rousing song,
Of Stonewall Jackson's Way.
We see him now--the queer slouched hat,
Cocked o'er his eye askew;
The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat,
So calm, so blunt, so true.
The "Blue-light Elder" knows 'em well:
Says he, "That's Banks; he's fond of shell.--
Lord save his soul! we'll give him--;" Well,
That's Stonewall Jackson's Way.
Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Caps off!
Old Massa's going to pray.
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff:
Attention!--it's his way.
Appealing from his native sod,
_In forma pauperis_ to God.
"Lay bare Thine arm! Stretch forth Thy rod:
Amen!"--That's Stonewall's Way.
He's in the saddle now. Fall in!
Steady! the whole brigade.
Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win
His way out, ball and blade.
What matter if our shoes are worn?
What matter if our feet are torn?
Quick step! we're with him before morn:
That's Stonewall Jackson's Way.
The sun's bright lances rout the mists
Of morning; and--By George!
Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge.
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