Stonewall Jackson's Way
by John Williamson Palmer
Come stack arms, men! pile on the
rails,
Stir up the campfire bright;
No growling if the canteen fails,
We'll make a roaring night.
Here Shenandoah brawls along,
Three 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 Shrewed, 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 goin' 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 matters if our shoes are worn?
What matters if our feet ore 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.
Pope and his Dutchmen, whipped before;
"Bay'nets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar;
"George, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score!"
In "Stonewall Jackson's way."
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;
Thy life shall not be all forlorn;
The foe had better ne'er been born
That gets in "Stonewall's way."