In the dense heart of the thicketed Wilderness, Stonewall Jackson lies dying for four long days. They have cut off his arm, they have tried such arts as they know, But no arts now can save him. When he was hit By the blind chance bullet-spatter from his own lines, In the night, in the darkness, they stole him off from the field To keep the men from knowing, but the men knew. The dogs in the house will know when there’s something wrong. You do not have to tell them. He marched his men That grim first day across the whole Union front To strike a sleepy right wing with a sudden stone And roll it up⁠—it was his old trick of war That Lee and he could play like finger and thumb! It was the last time they played so. When the blue-coated Unprepared ranks of Howard saw that storm, Heralded by wild rabbits and frightened deer, Burst on them yelling, out of the whispering woods, They could not face it. Some men died where they stood,