Quick, as it fell from the broken staff, Dame Barbara snatch’d the silken scarf. She lean’d 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 stirr’d 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. 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! [Illustration] [Illustration] MUSIC IN CAMP. BY JOHN R. THOMPSON. Two armies covered hill and plain, Where Rappahannock’s waters Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain Of battle’s recent slaughters. The summer clouds lay pitched like tents In meads of heavenly azure; And each dread gun of the elements Slept in its high embrasure. The breeze so softly blew, it made No forest leaf to quiver; And the smoke of the random cannonade Rolled slowly from the river. And now where circling hills looked down With cannon grimly planted, O’er listless camp and silent town The golden sunset slanted. When on the fervid air there came A strain, now rich, now tender; The music seemed itself aflame With day’s departing splendor. A Federal band, which eve and morn Played measures brave and nimble, Had just struck up with flute and horn And lively clash of cymbal. Down flocked the soldiers to the banks; Till, margined by its pebbles, One wooded shore was blue with “Yanks,” And one was gray with “Rebels.” Then all was still; and then the band, With movement light and tricksy, Made stream and forest, hill and strand, Reverberate with “Dixie.” The conscious stream, with burnished glow, Went proudly o’er its pebbles, But thrilled throughout its deepest flow With yelling of the Rebels. Again a pause; and then again The trumpet pealed sonorous, And “Yankee Doodle” was the strain To which the shore gave chorus.