To swell the brigade's rousing song We see him now, the old slouched hat Cocked o'er his eye askew; The shrewd, dry smile, the speech so pat, The “Blue-Light Elder" knows 'em well; That's Stonewall Jackson's way." -;" well, Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off! Old Blue-Light's going to pray. Strangle the fool that dares to scoff! In forma pauperis to God: 66 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! What matter if our shoes are worn? What matter if our feet are torn? 66 Quick-step! we 're with him before dawn! That's "Stonewall Jackson' way." The sun's bright lances rout the mists Here's Longstreet struggling in the lists, Pope and his Yankees, whipped before; 66 'Bay'nets and grape!" near Stonewall roar; "Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score!" Is "Stonewall Jackson's way." SONG FOR THE IRISH BRIGADE. 323 Ah! maiden, wait and watch and yearn For news of Stonewall's band! Ah! widow, read with eyes that burn Ah! wife, sew on, pray on, hope on, NoT now for the songs of a nation's wrongs, To the clash of the flashing sabre! There are Irish ranks on the tented banks And an iron clank, from flank to flank, And the frank souls there, clear, true, and bare Can love or hate, with the strength of Fate, Whose sword's avenging glory Might light the fight and smite for Right, With pale affright and panic flight Shall dastard Yankees, base and hollow, Hear a Celtic race, from their battle-place, Charge to the shout of " Faugh-a-ballagh !' By the souls above, by the land we love, The sledge is wrought that shall smash to naught The Irish green shall again be seen As our Irish fathers bore it, A burning wind from the South behind, O'Neil's red hand shall purge the land, Rain fire on men and cattle, Till the Lincoln snakes in their own cold lakes Plunge from the blaze of battle. The knaves that rest on Columbia's breast, We'll exorcise from the rescued prize, For a tyrant's life a bowie-knife! Of Union-knot dissolvers, The best we ken are stalworth men, Whoe'er shall march by triumphal arch, Rise, bleeding ghosts, to the Lord of Hosts, Your fanatic horde to the edge of the sword THE CONFEDERATE FLAG. 325 THE CONFEDERATE FLAG. I. TAKE that banner down, 't is weary; For there's not a man to wave it, And its foes now scorn and brave it: II. Take that banner down, 't is tattered, Oh, 't is hard for us to fold it! Hard to think there 's none to hold it; Hard, for those who once unrolled it, Now must furl it with a sigh. III. Furl that banner, furl it sadly; Swore that foeman's sword should never And that flag should float forever IV. Furl it, for the hands that grasped it, And that banner, it is trailing, V. For, though conquered, they adore it, VI. gory; Furl that banner! True, 't is VII. Furl that banner softly, slowly; New York Freeman's Journal. |