W HO'VE ye got there? " — Only a dying brother,
Hurt at the front just now.
" Poor lad! he's dead. 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's a Yank about.

Whom have we here — shrouded in martial manner,
Crowned with a victor's charm?
A dumb, dead captain, in a living banner,
Born of his heart and arm.

The heart whereon his cause hung. — Mark 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 fiery inspiration,
His prayers in council met.
Living, he laid the first stones of a nation,
And dead, he builds it yet.