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: