He tink we lub him so before, We lub him better free. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear So sing our dusky gondoliers; And smiles that seem akin to tears, We hear the wild refrain. We dare not share the negro's trust, Nor yet his hope deny ; We only know that God is just, Rude seems the song; each swarthy face, Flame-lighted, ruder still: We start to think that hapless race That laws of changeless justice bind And, close as sin and suffering joined, We march to Fate abreast. Sing on, poor hearts! your chant shall be Our sign of blight or bloom, The Vala-song of Liberty, Or death-rune of our doom! P from the meadows rich with corn, U from in the cool September morn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Round about them orchards sweep, Apple- and peach-tree fruited deep, Fair as a 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, 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, 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, Under his slouched hat left and right "Halt!" the dust-brown ranks stood fast. out blazed the rifle-blast. "Fire! 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, But spare your country's flag," she said. |