{ Twenty-Four }

Betsy's Battle Flag

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 stiched the stripes of white a red,

And when the day came up the stair complete across a carven chair hung Betsy's battle-flag.

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 intended bled, but floating bravely overhead was Betsy's battle-flag.

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.

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.

~Minna Irving