Under his slouch’d 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 shiver’d the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell from the broken staff, Dame Barbara snatch’d the silken scarf.
She lean’d 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 stirr’d 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: