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, | 5 |
| 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; | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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. | 20 |
| 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! | 25 |
| 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? | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| Hemmed in an ugly gorge. | |
| Pope and his Dutchmen!—whipped before. | |
| “Bay’nets and grape!” hear Stonewall roar. | |
| Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby’s score, | |
| In Stonewall Jackson’s Way. | 40 |
| |
| Ah, Maiden! wait and watch, and yearn, | |
| For news of Stonewall’s band. | |
| Ah, Widow! read, with eyes that burn, | |
| That ring upon thy hand. | |
| Ah, Wife! sew on, pray on, hope on! | 45 |
| Thy life shall not be all forlorn. | |
| The foe had better ne’er been born, | |
| That gets in Stonewall’s Way. | |
| |
