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O'er their graves the Southern maidens, From sea-shore to mountain grot, We'll plant the smiling- rose of beauty And the sweet forget-me-not.
RIDING A RAID.
'Tis old Stonewall, the rebel, that leans on his sword, And, while we are mounting, prays low to the Lord; Now each cavalier who loves honor and right, Let him follow the feather of Stuart to-night.
Chorus—Come, tighten your girths and slacken your rein ; Come, buckle your blanket and holster again; Try the click of your trigger and balance your blade, For he must ride sure who goes riding a raid.
Now gallop, now gallop, to swim or to ford; Old Stonewall, still watching, prays low to the Lord. Good-by, dear old rebel; the river 's not wide, And Maryland's lights in the windows do shine.
Then gallop, then gallop, by ravine and rocks, Who would bar up the way takes his toll in hard knocks; For with these points of steel up the lines of old Penn, We have made some fine strokes and will make 'em again.