Day after day our way has been O'er many a hill and hollow; Through marsh and bog, by wood and glen -- Where "Stonewall" leads, we follow. Through dust-clouds rising dim and thick, Or smoke of battle o'er us, Close to our leader we must "stick," As he trots on before us.
Now we're trotting up a hill, Or fast behind it sinking; Or jumping o'er some road-side rill, Without a pause for drinking; Now crowding on the narrow road In thick and struggling masses; Now skirmishing the fields so broad, Or guarding mountain passes.
Our march is thirty miles a day, And forty -- now and then -- But that's not strange, you well may say, For we are Jackson's men. Before the sun gets up, we rise, And eat our beef and dough, And e'er the morn has left the skies, We're off upon the "go."
With five days' rations of fresh meat, (And no shirts) on our backs, And "nary a leather" on our feet, We're ever making tracks. In this sad plight we dash ahead From morn till late at night, Or else are halted, well-nigh dead, To charge the foe in fight.
Ah! then we throw aside our beef -- Our blankets follow suit; The exchange, we know, is our relief -- We're sure to get the boot.
No wonder that the Yankees run, And will not stop to fight; For we've no need of sword or gun -- They cannot stand a sight. Our long hair floating on the wind, Like witches in Macbeth -- They know they dare not lag behind -- We'll have their -- shoes, or death!
Young man! if truly you desire To join our gallant band -- If "Jack's" the leader you admire, Enlist in our command. You'll meet the "Yanks" ere many a day. If killed -- why, what's the loss? In Heaven you'll be proud to say, I was one of "Jack's Foot Horse."
