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.