"STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY."

Of the blight upon the heather,
And the frost upon the hill,
And the whistling, whistling ever,
And the never, never still;

Of the little leaflets falling,

With the sweetest, saddest sound,
oh! the soldier,

And the soldier

In his blanket on the ground.

Thus I lingered in my dreaming, -
In my dreaming far away,
Till the spirit's picture-painting
Seemed as vivid as the day;
And the moonlight faded softly
From the window opened wide,
And the faithful, faithful pointer
Nestled closer by my side.

And I knew that 'neath the starlight,
Though the chilly frosts may fall,
That the soldier will be dreaming,
Dreaming often of us all.
So I gave my spirit's painting

Just the breathing of a sound,
For the dreaming, dreaming soldier,
In his slumber on the ground.
November 24, 1861.

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"STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY."

COME, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails,
Stir up the camp-fire bright;

No matter if the canteen fails,

We'll make a roaring night.

Here Shenandoah brawls along,
There burly 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 '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 Blue-Light's going to pray.

Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!

Attention! it's his way. Appealing from his native sod,

In forma pauperis to God:

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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 matter if our shoes are worn?

What matter if our feet are torn?

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Quick-step! we 're with him before dawn!" That's "Stonewall Jackson' 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 Yankees, whipped before ;

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Bay'nets and grape!" near Stonewall roar;

Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score !"
Is "Stonewall Jackson's way."

SONG FOR THE IRISH BRIGADE.

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
Stonewall's way."

That gets in

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SONG FOR THE IRISH BRIGADE.

BY "SHAMROCK 99 OF THE SUMPTER RIFLES.

Not now for the songs of a nation's wrongs,
Nor the groans of starving labor;
Let the rifle ring and the bullet sing

To the clash of the flashing sabre !
There are Irish ranks on the tented banks
Of Columbia's guarded ocean,

And an iron clank, from flank to flank,
Tells of armed men in motion.

And the frank souls there, clear, true, and bare
To all, as the steel beside them.

Can love or hate, with the strength of Fate,
Till the grave of the valiant hide them,
Each seems to be mailed Ard Righ,
Whose sword's avenging glory

Might light the fight and smite for Right,
Like Brian's in olden story!

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!"

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By the souls above, by the land we love,
Her tears and bleeding patience,

The sledge is wrought that shall smash to naught
The brazen liar of nations.

The Irish green shall again be seen

As our Irish fathers bore it,

A burning wind from the South behind,
And the Yankee rout before it! -
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,
And the voice of true men stifle,
We'll exorcise from the rescued prize,

Our talisman, the rifle;

For a tyrant's life a bowie-knife!

Of Union-knot dissolvers,

The best we ken are stalworth men,
Columbiads and revolvers !

Whoe'er shall march by triumphal arch,
Whoe'er may swell the slaughter,
Our drums shall roll from the Capitol
O'er Potomac's fateful water!

Rise, bleeding ghosts, to the Lord of Hosts,
For judgment final and solemn;

Your fanatic horde to the edge of the sword

Is doomed, — line, square, and column.

THE CONFEDERATE FLAG.

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THE CONFEDERATE FLAG.

I.

TAKE that banner down, 't is weary;
Round its staff 't is drooping dreary;
Furl it, fold it, let it rest;

For there's not a man to wave it,
For there's not a sword to save it,
In the blood that heroes gave it;

And its foes now scorn and brave it:
Furl it, hide it, let it rest.

II.

Take that banner down, 't is tattered,
Broken is its staff and shattered;
And the valiant hosts are scattered,
Over whom it floated high.

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;
Once six millions hailed it gladly,

And ten thousand wildly, madly
Swore it should forever wave;

Swore that foeman's sword should never
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever;

And that flag should float forever
O'er their freedom or their grave.

IV.

Furl it, for the hands that grasped it,
And the hearts that fondly clasped it,
Cold and dead are lying low;