Even thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate,
    That fate is thine—­no distant date;
    Stern Ruin’s plowshare drives, elate,
          Full on thy bloom,
    Till crushed beneath the furrow’s weight
          Shall be thy doom.

ROBERT BURNS.

 BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

“Barbara Frietchie” will be beloved of all times because she was an old woman (not necessarily an old lady) worthy of her years.  Old age is honourable if it carries a head that has a halo. (1807-92.)

    Up from the meadows rich with corn,
    Clear in the cool September morn,

    The clustered spires of Frederick stand
    Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

    Roundabout them orchards sweep,
    Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

    Fair as the garden of the Lord
    To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

    On that pleasant morn of the early fall
    When Lee marched over the mountain-wall,

    Over the mountains winding down,
    Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

    Forty flags with their silver stars,
    Forty flags with their crimson bars,

    Flapped in the morning wind:  the sun
    Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

    Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
    Bowed with her fourscore years and ten,

    Bravest of all in Frederick town,
    She took up the flag the men hauled down.

    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.

   “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.

    Even 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.