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? 
  Quick step! we’re with him before morn: 
    That’s Stonewall Jackson’s 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 Dutchmen!—­whipped before. 
  “Bay’nets 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,
    That gets in Stonewall’s Way.

JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER

* * * * *

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

  Up from the meadows rich with corn,
  Clear in the cool September morn.

  The clustered spires of Frederick stand
  Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

  Round about them orchards sweep. 
  Apple and peach trees fruited deep,

  Fair as a garden of the Lord
  To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

  On that pleasant morn of the early fall
  When Lee marched over the mountain wall,—­

  Over the mountains, winding down,
  Horse and foot into Frederick town.

  Forty flags with their silver stars,
  Forty flags with their crimson bars,

  Flapped in the morning wind:  the sun
  Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

  Tip rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
  Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

  Bravest of all in Frederick town,
  She took up the flag the men hauled down;

  In her attic-window the staff she set,
  To show that one heart was loyal yet.

  Up the street came the rebel tread,
  Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

  Under his slouched hat left and right
  He glanced:  the old flag met his sight.

  “Halt!”—­the dust-brown ranks stood fast;
  “Fire!”—­out blazed the rifle-blast.

  It shivered the window, pane and sash;
  It rent the banner with seam and gash.

  Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
  Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

  She leaned far out on the window-sill,
  And shook it forth with a royal will.

  “Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
  But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

  A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
  Over the face of the leader came;