Contributed by Nell Campbell

Poem by Helen Gray Cone

GREENCASTLE JENNY--A BALLAD OF '63

by Helen Gray CONE

On Greencastle's streets was a stream of steel

From the slanting muskets the soldiers bore,

And the scarred earth trembled and shook to feel

The tramp and rumble of Longstreet's Corps.

The bands were blaring "The Bonnie Blue Flag,"

And the banners they bore were a motley many,

And watching the gray column wind and drag

Was a slip of a girl--we'll call her Jenny.

Pickett's Virginians were marching through,

Supple as steel and brown as leather,

Rusty and dusty of hat and shoe,

Wonted to war and hunger and weather.

Fearless, peerless, and army's pride--

Better soldiers the world saw never--

Marching away through the sweet Junetide

To death and disaster--and fame forever.

A slip of a girl (what matter her name?)

With her cheeks aflame and her lips a-quiver,

As she stood and gazed with a loyal shame

At the steady flow of the steely river,

Till a storm grew black in the hazel eyes

Time had not tamed nor a lover sighed for,

And she ran and girded her, apronwise,

With the flag she loved and her brother died for.

Out of the doorway they saw her start

(Pickett's Virginians were marching through),

The hot little foolish hero heart

Armored with stars on their field of blue.

Clutching the folds of red and white,

Stood she and bearded those ranks of theirs,

Shouting shrilly with all her might:

"Come and take it, the man that dares."

Rose from the ranks a rippling cheer;

Pickett saluted, his bold eyes beaming,

Doffing his hat like a cavalier,

His tawny locks the warm breeze streaming.

Fierce little Jenny, her courage fell

As she heard the sound of the friendly laughter,

And Greencastle's street gave forth the yell

That Gettysburg slope heard again soon after.

So they cheered for the flag they fought

With the sturdy pride of the stubborn fighter,

Loving the brave as brave men ought,

And never a finger was raised to fright her.

And so they marched, though they knew it not,

Through the sweet green roads to the shock infernal,

To the hell of the shell and the plunging shot--

And a fame that has left them a name eternal.

And she felt, as she hid her burning face,

There had hid at the root of her childish daring

A trust in the men of her own brave race

And a secret faith in the foe's forbearing.

And she sobbed and sobbed till the rumbling gun

And the rhythmic tread of the marching men

Were a memory only, and day was done,

And the stars were out in the blue again.

( The above poem was sent to the VETERAN by Henry Redwood, of Asheville, N.C. who gives it from memory. It was recalled by seeing the statement of Mrs. Pickett that her husband under similar circumstances lifted his hat and saluted the flag. He thinks it may have been the same episode, with General Pickett as the officer, and that the average regiment would have done just what is described.)

Confederate Veteran Magazine, Nov. 1913 Vol. XXI, p. 535

I have biographical information on Helen Gray Cone, can't find it just now. As I recall, she was never married. - Nell Campbell

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