Man to man at last!
In the grip and the sway of the wrestle
Springing the regiments clinched, flinging away their formation,
Red-blind, sobbing for breath, mad in the terrible mellay,
Mad for the blood-bright flags, for the star-crossed flags of the Southland,
Borne on the crest of the wave through the broken lines of the Union—
Broken ——
Again to close; brief was the desperate triumph!
Happy the Southron who died as cheering he planted his colors,
Passed on the crest of the wave as it curved to the crash of its falling!