'At 's clumb clean up to the shoulder-straps

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!
Think of him-with the war plum' through,
And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue
A-laughin' the news down over Jim,
And the old man, bendin' over him—
The surgeon turnin' away with tears
'At hadn't leaked fer years and years,
As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to
His Father's, the old voice in his ears,―
"Well, good-bye, Jim:

Take keer of yourse'f!"

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY

COME, stack arms, men; pile on the rails;
Stir up the camp-fire bright!
No growling 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 queer 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 Massa'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.

"Lay bare Thine arm! Stretch forth Thy rod: Amen!"-That's Stonewall's Way.

He's in thé 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.

Up 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;

The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman's deed and word:

"Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog! March on!" he said.

All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet;

All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,

And the rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honor to her! and let a tear

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,
Flag of freedom and union, wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.