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 goin’ 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.” | |
| |
