Come, stack arms, men! pile on the rails,
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Stir up the camp-fire bright;
 No growling if the canteen fails,
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; We'll make a roaring night.
 Here Shenandoah brawls along,
 There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,
 To swell the Brigade's rousing song 
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Of "Stonewall Jackson's way." We see him now-the queer slouched hat
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Cocked o'er his eye askew;
 The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat,
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 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!
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; That's "Stonewall Jackson's way." 

Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Old Massa's goin' to pray.
 Strangle the fool that dares to scoff
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Attention! it's his way.
 Appealing from his native sod
 In forma pauperis to God:
 "Lay bare Thine arm; stretch forth Thy rod!
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Amen!"---That's "Stonewall's way." 

He's in the saddle now. Fall in!
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Steady! the whole brigade!
 Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win 
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 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 before morn!"
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; That's "Stonewall Jackson's way." 

The sun's bright lances rout the mists
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Of morning, and, by George!
 Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists,
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 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"
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; in "Stonewall Jackson's Way." 

Ah, Maiden! wait and watch and yearn
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; For news of Stonewall's band,
 Ah, widow! read, with eyes that burn,
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 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 
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; That gets in "Stonewall's way."

John Williamson Palmer

Civil War

Stonewall Jackson's Way