Yellow-haired Hood with his wounds and his empty sleeve, Leading his Texans, a Viking shape of a man, With the thrust and lack of craft of a berserk sword, All lion, none of the fox. When he supersedes Joe Johnston, he is lost, and his army with him, But he could lead forlorn hopes with the ghost of Ney. His bigboned Texans follow him into the mist. Who follows them? These are the Virginia faces, The Virginia speech. It is Jackson’s foot-cavalry, The Army of the Valley, It is the Stonewall Brigade, it is the streams Of the Shenandoah, marching. Ewell goes by, The little woodpecker, bald and quaint of speech, With his wooden leg stuck stiffly out from his saddle, He is muttering, “Sir, I’m a nervous Major-General, And whenever an aide rides up from General Jackson I fully expect an order to storm the North Pole.” He chuckles and passes, full of crotchets and courage, Living on frumenty for imagined dyspepsia, And ready to storm the North Pole at a Jackson phrase.