The Political Forum

BARBARA FRIETCHIE
John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892)

It looks like the United States will be going to war in Iraq any day now. So I thought it would be a fine time for a good old fashioned patriotic poem. And I can think of none better than Whittier's classic, Barbara Frietchie."

This was a fiery political work when it was published in 1863, in the midst of what is still the bloodiest war Americans have ever fought. Whittier was, after all, an ardent abolitionist, and his customarily gentle poetry took on a very hard edge when it came to the subject of what Lincoln described in his much celebrated second inaugural address as "the great contest." Today, Barbara Frietchie is usually described as a "sentimental ballad."

When the poem was published, Whittier claimed that it was "written in strict conformity to the account of an incident as I had it from respectable and trustworthy sources." My 1894 edition of Whittier's Compete Poetical Works (the umpteenth printing of a book that was first published in 1848) contains the following attempt at clarifying the history of the incident.

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.

In any case, Barbara Frietchie is still a great read today, 140 years after it stormed across America's war torn landscape. Young school children no longer can recite its most famous two lines, "'Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag,' she said," as they could when my Mother was a child. But I believe that some, at least, would still enjoy the poem, if such poetry were still taught in our schools.

We'll revisit Whitter again. In the meantime, enjoy this "sentimental ballad."

BARBARA FRIETCHIE

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 the 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 tossed
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!

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