Round about them orchards sweep, Apple- and peach-trees fruited deep.
Fair as the garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famish’d rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fall, When Lee march’d 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,
Flapp’d in the morning wind: the sun Of noon look’d down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bow’d with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men haul’d 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.