At Bull Run, when the sun was low,
Each Southern face grew pale as snow,
While loud as jackdaws rose the crow
Of Yankees boasting terribly!

But Bull Run saw another sight,
When, at the deepening shades of night,
Toward Fairfax Court House rose the flight
Of Yankees running rapidly.

Then broke each corps with terror riven,
Then rushed the steeds from battle driven,
For men of battery Number Seven
Forsook their Red Artillery!

Still on McDowell’s farthest left,
The roar of cannon strikes one deaf,
Where furious Abe and fiery Jeff
Contend for death or victory.

The panic thickens—off, ye brave!
Throw down your arms! your bacon save!
Waive Washington, all scruples waive,
And fly, with all your chivalry!