Of marching men with tongues as dry as cotton. Cotton and honeysuckle and eglantine Move North in a drenching wave of blossom and guns To wash out wheat and iron forever and ever. There will be other waves that set toward the North, There will be a high tide, But this is the high hour. Jackson has still three hammerstrokes to strike, Lee is still master of the attacking sword, Stuart still carries his black feather high. Put silver in your bell-metal, Richmond bells, The wave of the cotton goes North to your sweet ringing, The first great raiding wave of the Southern dream.