Found on the body of a sergeant of the Old Stonewall Brigade, Winchester, Va.

[The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.]

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,
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 as pat—
So calm, so blunt, so true.
The “Blue Light Elder” knows o’er 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! ’tis his way!
Appealing from his native sod,
In forma pauperis to God—
“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! He’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 before dawn!”
That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”

The sun’s bright lances rout the mists
Of morning, and, by George,
There’s Longstreet struggling in the lists,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge—
Pope and his Yankees whipped before—
“Bayonet and grape!” hear Stonewall roar,
“Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby’s score
In Stonewall Jackson’s way.”

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,
Than get in “Stonewall’s way.”