Some Poems for Flag Day

Hello everyone –

June’s parade of patriotic holidays continues next week with Flag Day on Thursday the 14^th, which commemorates he adoption of the first “Stars and Stripes” flag by the Continental Congress in 1777. Our first two poems were chosen in honor this red-white-and-blue holiday. Our third poem, written at the outbreak of World War I, is an original and thoughtful remembrance of Father Abraham.

“Betsy’s Battle Flag”

By Minna Irving (1872)

This poem was written in homage to Betsy Ross, who is widely credited with producing the first edition of the “Stars and Stripes” American flag for the Continental Congress in 1777.

1. From dusk till dawn the livelong night

She kept the tallow dips alight,

And fast her nimble fingers flew

To sew the stars upon the blue.

With weary eyes and aching head

She stitched the stripes of white and red.

And when the day came up the stair

Complete across a carven chair

Hung Betsy’s battle-flag.

2. Like shadows in the evening gray

The Continentals filed away,

With broken boots and ragged coats,

But hoarse defiance in their throats;

They bore the marks of want and cold,

And some were lame and some were old,

And some with wounds untended bled,

But floating bravely overhead

Was Betsy’s battle-flag.

3. When fell the battle’s leaden rain,

The soldier hushed his moans of pain

And raised his dying head to see

King George’s troopers turn and flee.

Their charging column reeled and broke,

And vanished in the rolling smoke,

Before the glory of the stars,

The snowy stripes, and scarlet bars

Of Betsy’s battle-flag.

4. The simple stone of Betsy Ross

Is covered now with mold and moss,

But still her deathless banner flies,

And keeps the color of the skies.

A nation thrills, a nation bleeds,

A nation follows where it leads,

And every man is proud to yield

His life upon a crimson field

For Betsy’s battle-flag!

“Barbara Frietchie” (1864)

By John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892)

“This poem was written in strict conformity to the account of the incident as I had it from respectable and trustworthy sources. It has since been the subject of a good deal of conflicting testimony, and the story was probably incorrect in some of its details. It is admitted by all that Barbara Frietchie was no myth, but a worthy and highly esteemed gentlewoman, intensely loyal and a hater of the Slavery Rebellion, holding her Union flag sacred and keeping it with her Bible; that when the Confederates halted before her house, and entered her dooryard, she denounced them in vigorous language, shook her cane in their faces, and drove them out; and when General Burnside’s troops followed close upon Jackson’s, she waved her flag and cheered them. It is stated that May Quantrell, a brave and loyal lady in another part of the city, did wave her flag in sight of the Confederates. It is possible that there has been a blending of the two incidents.”  -- JGW

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.

Round about 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 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.

Ever 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.

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!

“Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight” (1914)

By Vachel Lindsay (1879-1931)

It is portentous, and a thing of state

That here at midnight, in our little town

A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,

Near the old court-house pacing up and down,

Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards

He lingers where his children used to play,

Or through the market, on the well-worn stones

He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.

A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black,

A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl

Make him the quaint great figure that men love,

The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.

He cannot sleep upon his hillside now.

He is among us: — as in times before!

And we who toss and lie awake for long

Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.

His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings.

Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?

Too many peasants fight, they know not why,

Too many homesteads in black terror weep.

The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart.

He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main.

He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now

The bitterness, the folly and the pain.

He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn

Shall come; — the shining hope of Europe free:

The league of sober folk, the Workers’ Earth,

Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.

It breaks his heart that kings must murder still,

That all his hours of travail here for men

Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace

That he may sleep upon his hill again?

Keep your eyes on the  Grand Old Flag! :)

Rob