Barbara Frietchie

¹Up from the meadows rich with corn,

²Clear in the cool September morn,

³The clustered spires of Frederick stand

⁴Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

⁵Round about them orchards sweep,

⁶Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

⁷Fair as the garden of the Lord

⁸To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

⁹On that pleasant morn of the early fall

¹⁰When Lee marched over the mountain-wall;

¹¹Over the mountains winding down,

¹²Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

¹³Forty flags with their silver stars,

¹⁴Forty flags with their crimson bars,

¹⁵Flapped in the morning wind: the sun

¹⁶Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

¹⁷Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,

¹⁸Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

¹⁹Bravest of all in Frederick town,

²⁰She took up the flag the men hauled down;

²¹In her attic window the staff she set,

²²To show that one heart was loyal yet.

²³Up the street came the rebel tread,

²⁴Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

²⁵Under his slouched hat left and right

²⁶He glanced; the old flag met his sight.

²⁷"Halt!" — the dust-brown ranks stood fast.

²⁸"Fire!" — out blazed the rifle-blast.

²⁹It shivered the window, pane and sash;

³⁰It rent the banner with seam and gash.

³¹Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff

³²Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.

³³She leaned far out on the window-sill,

³⁴And shook it forth with a royal will.

³⁵"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,

³⁶But spare your country's flag," she said.

³⁷A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,

³⁸Over the face of the leader came;

³⁹The nobler nature within him stirred

⁴⁰To life at that woman's deed and word;

⁴¹"Who touches a hair of yon gray head

⁴²Dies like a dog! March on!" he said.