UP from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Round about them orchards sweep,
Fair as the garden of the Lord
On that pleasant morn of the early fall
Over the mountains winding down,
Forty flags with their silver stars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bravest of all in Frederick town,
In her attic window the staff she set,
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Under his slouched hat left and right
“Halt!”—the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash;
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
She leaned far out on the window-sill,
“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
The nobler nature within him stirred
“Who touches a hair of yon gray head
All day long through Frederick street
All day long that free flag tost
Ever its torn folds rose and fell
And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er,
Honor to her! and let a tear
Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave,
Peace and order and beauty draw
And ever the stars above look down |