The Song of the Rebel

Oh, not a heart in all our host,But feels a noble thrill,To see the bristling bayonets,Of Jackson on the hill;To know that he has sealed the Ridge,And downward, onward pour,His legions to the field, from whichThe foe shall rise no more!

Make way for the “Stormy Petrel!”Look how he rides the wind,Down from the azure mountain,The calm days left behind!He comes on golden pinionsToward the glittering East,And the eagle-brood are gatheredTo hold their bloody feat!

Hark! how the long, loud cheeringRings through the swaying pines,And a thousand eyes are glowingAlong the serried lines!They know the great, calm leaderIn his old grey uniform,And the brave hearts rush to meet himAs they rush in the battle-storm!

They know the man of Kernstown—Of all that great campaignFar off in the snowy Valley,Where he met, with a great disdain,The plundering Yankee cohorts,By Shields and Fremont led,To the field of Port Republic,To sleep in a gory bed!

How he fell from the mountain passes,Like a hawk upon his prey,And the great host of McClellanLike a vapor passed away.How charging at Cold Harbour,He swept them from his path,As the dry leaves of the forestAre swept by the tempest’s wrath.

So a health to Stonewall Jackson,That soul so brave and true,That never a taint of craven guile,Or shade of falsehood knew.Who never shrunk from foeman’s steel,In the heart of the deadliest fight,And hears on his radiant banner’s fold,“May God defend the Right!”

In all the days of future years,His name and fame shall shine—The stubborn, iron CaptainOf our old Virginia Line!And men shall tell their children,Tho’ all other memories fade,That they fought with Stonewall Jackson,In the old “Stonewall Brigade!”

He comes! his battle flag aloft—His old brown coat more brownThan when the feeble arm of BanksEssayed to strike him down.He comes with calm and simple air,With kindly smile and eye—The man for whom ten thousand bravesWould lay them down and die!

And if we cheer our hero,Why not? No glittering lordCalls forth that shout: a soldierLeaning upon his sword—A way-worm Christian soldier,Excites that grand acclaim,To roll forever through the wallsAnd down the halls of fame.

Beware! good General Burnside,The storm is roaring down!The foaming crest is on the wave,And the skies begin to frown;Beware! the Stormy PetrelIs hovering o’er your camp,And amid the tempest’s howlingYou may have a steady “tramp!”

Longstreet is here to meet him—That other warden strong,Who watches at the temple gate,To guard the shrine from wrong.Large-minded, stout in action,A fighter to the death;No braver soul that LongstreetEre drew a human breath.

It blazed out at Manassas,And on the hard-fought fieldOf Richmond, where McClellanDied hard, but had to yield!You know him by the steadfast eye,And by the iron mouth—A battle charger, large and strong—The “war horse” of the South!

But hark! a ringing bugle!A merry clanking sound,With the din of clattering hoof-strokesUpon the frosty ground;And Stuart with his sabre keen,And floating plume appears,Surrounded by his gallant bandOf Southern cavaliers.

He rides his faithful “Sky-lark,”With golden spurs on heel;Against the tall boot rattlesHis brand of burnished steel.You read him by his lip and eye,His bearing, bold and free;The prince of chieftains on a raid,And pink of chivalry.

The Yankee captains know him—A sharp thorn in the side—In the scouting of the Valley,And the wild Pamunkey ride;In the dark midnight of Catlett’s,And on Manassas plain,And when in Pennsylvania,He charged their ranks amain.

And lo! at his side that phantom,Erect on a snow-white steed;With the pallid face and the fiery eyes,And the wounds that seem to bleed!What august form has startedForth from his bloody shround,To ride at the head of the column,When the wild charge clashes loud?

The dead go fast! the voicesOf great men shout in the wind:Our hero has departed,But his brave soul stays behind.Cold is the heart of Ashby,That king of the battle-storm,But it beats in the breast of Stuart,And strikes with his heavy arm!

So a health to the daring leader,And all his merry men,Who oft have hunted the Yankee wolf,And smoked him from his den;Their deeds of chivalry bring back,The princely days of yore,And the brave “Earl Perey” lives again,With the very smile he wore!

Look how the blue eyes brighten,The eager hand extends,To greet his brother soldier—His faithful friend of friends.See how two valiant spirits,Hot with the battle’s breath,Meet on the eve of conflict,Before the morn of death.

Long time ago they swore it—This friendship close and true—They clasped brave hands, as says the song,“Ere this old coat was new;”And in the hottest of the fight,You’ll see their forms appear—The Chief of the Virginia Line,Beside the cavalier.

Around them are the noble bandOf Paladins who fight,In this, our mighty struggle,For God and for the right.The soldier face of Rickett,The steady nerve of Hill,The dashing Lees and Hampton,Stout-hearted, strong of will.

Barksdale, that hearty fighterAs ever mounted steed;Brave Gregg, and Cobb, and Garnett,And Jenkins, good at need;Cooke, obstinate in combat,And Kemper, hot of mood,And yonder, with the quiet smile,The honest face of Hood.

Of Hood, the hero-hearted,Who in the darkest hour,Stands like a light-house on a rock,Whatever tempest lower:Who wrote his name of Groveton heights,And Sharpsburg’s bloody field,A great and fearless soldier, trainedIn all—but how to yield!

Near there, the younger captains,In battle trappings stand,In red, and gold, and scarlet,A tried and trusty band.Brave Rosser, Wickham, Munford,They come in long array;And Butler, Gordon, Martin,First in the raid or fray.

And still behind the cavaliers,Those other leaders come;Who from the sullen cannon’s mouth,Hurl forth the bolt of doom:Cool Walker, “gallant Pelham,”Of youthful, modest mein,And Dearing with the smiling lips,The soul in battle keen.

No hardier band of gentlemenE’er drew the keen-edged brand,Or rode amid the battle smoke,To guard their native land.Forever shall their famous deedsShine on the glowing page,Their name shall live thro’ countless years,Our proudest heritage!

One form along remains behind,And lo! the figure comes;Not with the tinsel Yankee pomp,Or din of rolling drums;Wrapped in his old grey riding cape,A grizzled cavalier,See Lee, our spotless Southern knight,“Without reproach or fear.”

We know him well, our captain—The foremost man of all,Whom though the red destruction lower,No peril can appal.We know how he struck McClellan,In his trebly guarded lines,And Bully Pope sent flying,Through the dim Manassas pines.

All honor to the chieftainWith the calm, undaunted mein,The honest old Virginia blood,And the great, broad soul serene.Though all the hounds of ruin howl,These nations shall be free.For the Red Cross flag is borne aloft,By the stalwart hand of Lee!

The chieftain of our chieftains,Virginia claims her son,But for the whole great Southern raceHis deeds have glory won;For the blood of “Light-Horse Harry”Burns in a larger soul,As true to the call of honorAs the needle to the pole.

As true! and who but loves him,The man to us so dear;Whom soil of base detractionHas never dared come hear;Who keeps his lordly path, unmovedThrough calm or storm, and hearsEven now the calm historic voiceFrom out the future years.

Such is our band of heroes,Who fight the bitter fight,Here on our sacred Southern soil,For our ancient English right;Who meet and greet brave JacksonUpon his rapid way;For whom all patriotic heartsUnceasing praise and pray.

So a health to Stonewall Jackson,To Longstreet, brave as steel;To Stuart, with the fearless soul,A knight from plume to heel.And last to Lee, our General,Beneath whose flag we go,To test the edge of Southern steelOn a vulgar, brutal foe.