Stir up the camp-fires bright;
No matter if the canteen fails,
We’ll make a roaring night.
Here Shenandoah brawls along,
There lofty Blue Ridge echoes strong
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 so pat,