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[The first three stanzas of this anonymous poem have reference to the scene of the wounding of Jackson; the last three relate to the burial. The poem is dated 1863.]

"Who've ye got there?" "Only a dying brother,


Hurt in the front just now.'

"Good boy! he'll do. Somebody tell his mother

Where he was killed, and how."

"Whom have you there?" "A crippled courier, Major, Shot by mistake, we hear;

He was with Stonewall." "Cruel work they've made here; Quick with him to the rear!"

"Well, who comes next?" "Doctor, speak low, speak low, sir; Don't let the men find out!

It's STONEWALL!" "God!" "The brigade must not know, sir, While there is a foe about!"

Whom have we here-shrouded in martial manner,

Crowned with a martyr's charm?

A grand dead hero, in a living banner,
Born of his heart and arm:

The heart whereon his cause hung-see how clingeth
That banner to his bier!

The arm wherewith his cause struck-hark! how ringeth
His trumpet in their rear!

What have we left? His glorious inspiration,
His prayers in council met;

Living, he laid the first stones of a nation;
And dead, he builds it yet.


[This poem seems to have appeared first in the Metropolitan Record. Neither its date nor its author is known. Professor A. W. Long, in his 'American Poems, 17761900' (pp. 358-359), compares it interestingly with "The Conquered Banner" by Father Ryan: Although lacking both the passionate and musical qualities of Father Ryan's poem, this anonymous lament has more dignity and restraint; but the feeling is none the less sincere. Both poems, it is to be noted, accept the outcome of the war calmly and regard it as final-accept it without bitterness, but with pride for gallant deeds and sorrow for the dead."]


No more o'er human hearts to wave,

Its tattered folds forever furled:
We laid it in an honored grave,

And left its memories to the world.

The agony of long, long years,

May, in a moment, be compressed,
And with a grief too deep for tears,
A heart may be oppressed.

Oh! there are those who die too late

For faith in God, and Right, and Truth-
The cold mechanic grasp of Fate

Hath crushed the roses of their youth.

More blessed are the dead who fell

Beneath it in unfaltering trust,
Than we, who loved it passing well,
Yet lived to see it trailed in dust.

It hath no future which endears,

And this farewell shall be our last:
Embalm it in a nation's tears,

And consecrate it to the past!

To mouldering hands that to it clung,
And flaunted it in hostile faces,
To pulseless arms that round it flung,
The terror of their last embraces-

To our dead heroes-to the hearts

That thrill no more to love or glory,
To those who acted well their parts,

Who died in youth and live in glory

With tears forever be it told,
Until oblivion covers all:

Until the heavens themselves wear old,
And totter slowly to their fall.


[The authorship of this unique poem is still in doubt. In the Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C., there is a Confederate note with these lines inscribed upon it and signed by Miss M. J. Turner of North Carolina. There is no proof, however, that this is the original copy. The authorship has been ascribed also to Mrs. R. E. Lytle of Louisville, Kentucky, and to Major S. A. Jonas of Aberdeen, Mississippi. The probabilities favor the latter. It is to be hoped that the republication of the poem in The Library of Southern Literature' will lead to a new investigation and final settlement of the question of authorship.]


Representing nothing on God's earth now,

And naught in the water below it—

As the pledge of a nation that's dead and gone,
Keep it, dear friend, and show it.

Show it to those who will lend an ear,
To the tale that this trifle will tell
Of liberty born of a patriot's dreams,

Of a storm-cradled nation that fell.

Too poor to possess the precious ores,

And too much of a stranger to borrow,
She issued to-day her promise to pay,

And hoped to redeem on the morrow.

We knew it had hardly a value in gold,
Yet as gold our soldiers received it;
It gazed in our eyes with a "promise" to pay,
And each patriot soldier believed it.

Keep it-it tells our history o'er,

From the birth of the dream to the last-
Modest, and born of the angel Hope,

Like our hope of success, it passed!



[The origin of the name is still in doubt. Three theories have been proposed. First, that the name is in some way related to the Dixon of Mason and Dixon's Line. Second, that a New Jersey farmer, named Dixie, employed negro labor on his estate which soon became a miniature Southland, the words "Dixie Land" referring at first to his plantation. The third and more probable conjecture relates the name to the famous Citizens' Bank of Louisiana. Twenty years before the Civil War this bank was the great financial institution of the Lower South. Its best known issue was a ten dollar note with the French word "Dix" engraved upon it. These bills were termed "Dixies," and, as they were known in all the States, people began to speak of the South as Dixie's Land or Dixie Land.


Whatever the origin of the name, the song spread from New Orleans through the South, just as "John Brown's Body" spread from Boston through the North. The words were written by Mr. Dan D. Emmett for Bryant's Minstrels in 1859. The "walk-around" was popular in New York but did not become the Marseillaise of the South until it was sung by Mrs. John Wood in the fall of 1860 in New Orleans. The following is the original version of Emmett.]

I wish I was in de land ob cotton,

Old times dar am not forgotten,

Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land,
In Dixie land, whar I was born in,

Early on one frosty mornin',

Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land,


Den I wish I was in Dixie,

Hooray, hooray,

In Dixie land I'll take my stand

To lib an' die in Dixie,

Away, away, away down South in Dixie.
Away, away, away down South in Dixie.

Ole missus marry Will-de-weaber,
William was a gay deceaber,

Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land.
But when he put his arm around 'er,
He smiled as fierce as a forty-pounder,

Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land.


His face was sharp as a butcher's cleaber,
But dat it did not seem to greab 'er,

Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land.


Dere's buckwheat cakes and Injun batter,
Makes you fat or a little fatter,

Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land.
Den hoe it down an' scratch your grabbel,

To Dixie land I'm bound to trabble,


away, look

away, look away, Dixie land.


Created by a nation's glee,

With jest and song and revelry,

We sang it in our early pride
Throughout our Southern borders wide;
While from ten thousand throats rang out
A promise in one glorious shout,

"To live or die for Dixie!"


[Mrs. Downing was born in Virginia in 1835 and died in 1894. She was the author of many poems, "Dixie" being the best known.]

How well that promise was redeemed

Is witnessed by each field where gleamed,
Victorious like the crest of Mars,
The banner of the Cross and Stars;
The cannon lay our warriors low,
We fill the ranks and onward go
"To live or die for Dixie!"

To die for Dixie! Oh, how blessed
Are those who early went to rest,

Nor knew the future's awful store,


But deemed the cause they fought for sure

As heaven itself; and so laid down
The cross of earth for glory's crown
And nobly died for Dixie.

To live for Dixie! Harder part!
To stay the hand, to still the heart,
To seal the lips, enshroud the past,
To have no future-all o'ercast;

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