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In her attic-window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced; the old flag met his sight.

61 Halt!”- the dust-brown ranks stood fast. “ Fire!”-out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.

“ Shoot, if you must, this old

gray head, But spare your country's flag,” she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman's deed and word :

“Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on !” he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.

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Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,
And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!






THE beaver cut his timber

With patient teeth that day, The minks were fish-wards, and the crows

Surveyors of highway,

When Keezar sat on the hill-side

Upon his cobbler's form,
With a pan of coals on either hand

To keep his waxed-ends warm.

And there, in the golden weather,

He stitched and hammered and sung ; In the brook he moistened his leather,

In the pewter mug his tongue.
Well knew the tough old Teuton

Who brewed the stoutest ale,
And he paid the good-wife's reckoning

In the coin of song and tale.
The songs they still are singing

Who dress the hills of vine, The tales that haunt the Brocken

And whisper down the Rhine.

Woodsy and wild and lonesome,

The swift stream wound away, Through birches and scarlet maples

Flashing in foam and spray, —

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