Come! stack arms, men; pile on the rails,

Stir up the camp-fires bright;

No matter if the canteen fails,

We’ll make a roaring night.

Here Shenandoah brawls along,

There lofty Blue Ridge echoes strong

To swell the brigade’s rousing song

Of “Stonewall Jackson’s Way.”

We see him now—the old 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 them 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 Blue Light’s” going to pray;

Strangle the fool who 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 Jackson’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 e’er the morn!

That’s Stonewall Jackson’s Way.

The sun’s bright glances rout the mists

Of morning—and, by George!

There’s Longstreet struggling in the lists,

Hemmed in an ugly gorge.

Pope and his columns whipped before.—

“Bay’nets and grape!” hear Stonewall roar;

“Charge, Stuart! pay off Ashby’s score!”

Is “Stonewall Jackson’s Way.”