BY J. R. BARRICK.

Flag of the South! Flag of the free!
Thy stars shall cheer each eye,
Thy folds a sacred banner be,
To all beneath our sky;
From where the blue Ohio flows,
Far to the sea-gulf’s stream,
Borne by each gentle breath that blows,
Thy hues shall flush and gleam.
Flag of the South! Flag of the free!
Type of a new estate,
Thy folds shall wave o’er land and sea,
And heart and home elate;
At thy approach shall tyrants quail
And despots, trembling, flee;
Nor wrong thy sway of right assail—
Nought mar thy liberty.
Flag of the South! Flag of the free!
Bright symbol of a land
Wrung from the grasp of tyranny,
Ere fettered heart and hand;
Freedom fixed in thy firm embrace,
A home for age shall find,
Linking the high hopes of our race
With the grand march of mind.
Flag of the South! Flag of the free!
The one to which we clung
In years agone, hath ceased to be
The pride on which we hung;
Long trampled in the dust, that flag
Hath lost the charm it bore;
No longer vale, and glen, and crag,
Swell with its praise of yore.
Flag of the South! Flag of the free!
Type of the Land of Flowers;
Thy stars shall light our victory
O’er all contending powers;
Where law and order still shall reign,
Thou shalt a signal be
To man, that he may still attain
The boon of Liberty!
Glasgow, Ky.

“STONEWALL JACKSON’S WAY.”

Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails,
Stir up the camp-fire bright;
No matter 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 old 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 Blue-Light’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 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 dawn!”
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 Yankees, whipped before;
“Bay’nets and grape!” hear Stonewall roar;
“Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby’s score!”
Is “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.”

GONE TO THE BATTLE-FIELD.

BY JOHN ANTROBUR.

The reaper has left the field,
The mower has left the plain;
And the reaper’s hook, and the mower’s scythe,
Are changed to the sword again;
For the voice of a hundred years ago,
When Freedom struck her mightiest blow,
Thrills every heart and brain.
The way-side mill is still,
And the wheel drips all alone,
For the miller’s brother, and son, and sire,
And the miller’s self have gone;
And their wives and daughters, tarrying still,
With smiles and tears about the mill,
Wave, wave their heroes on.
The grain is full and ripe,
And the harvest-moon is nigh,
But the farmer’s son is among the slain,
And the father heard the cry;
And his ancient eyes flashed fires of old,
His hoary head rose strong and bold,
As, wild, he hurried by.
The corn is yet a-field,
But many a stalk is red;
Yet not with the autumn-tassel stained,
But the blood of heroes shed;
And their blood cries out from heaps of slain:
Oh, brothers, leave the sheaves of grain;
On, to the fields of the dead!
By every quiet farm,
Whence father and son had gone,
The fairest daughters of the land,
Brave-hearted, cheer us on,
With the tender smiles that shelter tears,
And words to thrill a soldier’s ears,
When bloody fields are won.

Scarcely the form of man
Was seen on the long highway;
But patriot age, whose withered hands
Stretched feebly up to pray,
And children whose voices haunt us still,
Gathered on every knoll and hill,
Cheering us on our way.
Yonder, with feeble limbs,
A matron, with silver hair,
Knelt, trembling, down on the soldier’s path,
And breathed to heaven a prayer,
With quivering lips, with streaming eyes:
“O God! preserve these gallant boys;
In battle, be Thou there!”
O, soldiers! such as these
Like household memories come;
For a thousand prayers ascend to-day
From those we left at home;
For the red, red field to-night may be
Our couch, our grave—while Victory
Shall shout above our tomb.
In battle’s bloody hour
These pictures shall arise,
Of mothers, sisters, wives, and homes,
And red and streaming eyes;
And every arm shall stronger be,
For home, for God, for liberty,
And strike, while mercy dies.
Headquarters, 9th Regt. Virginia Vols.