'Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 35 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; 40 '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 45 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. 50 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, 55 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! 60 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL BATTLE AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY 'Tis like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembers All the achings and the quakings of "the times that tried men's souls[328];" When I talk of _Whig_ and _Tory_,[329] when I tell the _Rebel_ story, To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning coals. I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running battle[330]; 5 Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats still; But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up before me, When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker's Hill. 'Twas a peaceful summer's morning, when the first thing gave us warning. Was the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore: 10 "Child," says grandma, "what's the matter, what is all this noise and clatter? Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more?" Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking, To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar: She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage, 15 When the Mohawks[331] killed her father with their bullets through his door. Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you fret and worry any, For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or play; There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a minute"-- For a minute then I started. I was gone the livelong day. 20