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!

ᎢᎳ

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.

The laughing ripple shoreward flew
To kiss the shining pebbles;

Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue
Defiance to the Rebels.

And yet once more the bugle sang

Above the stormy riot;

No shout upon the evening rang—
There reigned a holy quiet.

The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles;
All silent now the Yankees stood,
All silent stood the Rebels.

No unresponsive soul had heart
That plaintive note's appealing,
So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirred
The hidden founts of feeling.

Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees,
As by the wand of fairy,

The cottage 'neath the live oak trees,
The cabin by the prairie.

Or cold, or warm, his native skies
Bend in their beauty o'er him;

Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes,
His loved ones stand before him.

As fades the iris after rain

In April's tearful weather,
The vision vanished as the strain
And daylight died together.

But Memory, waked by Music's art,
Expressed in simple numbers,
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart,
Made light the Rebel's slumbers.

And fair the form of Music shines-
That bright celestial creature—
Who still 'mid War's embattled lines

Gave this one touch of Nature.

[Southern.]