The Triangular Society :: :: University of Virginia Library

One summer morning, a daring band
Of rebels rode into Maryland,
Over the prosperous, peaceful farms,
Sending terror and strange alarms,
The clatter of hoofs and the clang of arms.

Fresh from the South where the hungry pine,
They ate like Pharaoh's starving kine;

They swept the land like devouring surge,
And left their path, to its furthest verge,
Bare as the track of the locust-scourge.

“The rebels are coming!” far and near
Rang the tidings of dread and fear;
Some paled and cowered, and sought to hide—
Some stood and waited, in fearless pride,
And women shuddered, and children cried.

But others—vipers in human form
Stinging the bosom that kept them warm,
Welcomed with triumph the thievish band,
Hurried to offer the friendly hand,
As the rebels rode into Maryland,—

Made them merry with food and wine,
Clad them in garments rich and fine
For rags and hunger to make amends,
Flattered them, praised them, with selfish ends—
“Leave us scathless, for we are friends!”

Could traitors trust in a traitor? No!
Little they favored friend or foe,
But gathered the cattle the farms across,
Flinging back, with a scornful toss,
“If ye are friends, ye can bear the loss!”

Flushed with triumph, and wine, and prey,
They neared the dwelling of Ishmael Day,
A sturdy veteran, gray and old,
With heart of a patriot, firm and bold,
Strong and steadfast—unbribed, unsold.

And Ishmael Day, his brave head bare,
His white locks tossed by the morning air,

Fearless of danger, and death, and scars,
Went out to raise, by the farm-yard bars,
The dear old flag of the stripes and stars.

Proudly, steadily up it flew,
Gorgeous with crimson, and white, and blue;
His withered hand, as he shook it freer,
May have trembled, but not with fear,
While, shouting, the rebels drew more near.

“Halt!” They had seen the hated sign
Floating wide from old Ishmael's line.
“Lower that rag!” was their wrathful cry.
“Never!” rang Ishmael Day's reply;
“Fire, if it please you! I can but die!”

One with a loud, defiant laugh,
Left his comrades and grasped the staff;
“Down!” came the fearless patriot's cry;
“Dare to lower that flag, and die!
One must bleed for it—you or I!”

But caring not for the stern command,
He drew the halliards with daring hand.
Ping! went the rifle-ball,—down he came
Under the flag he had tried to shame.
Old Ishmael Day took careful aim!

Hark! an echo! and now again
The tramp and tumult of arméd men;
And panic-stricken, the lawless band
Left their leader upon the sand,
And fled in fear out of Maryland.

Seventy winters and three had shed
Their snowy glories on Ishmael's head;

But though cheeks may wither, and locks grow gray,
His fame shall be fresh and young alway—
Honor be to old Ishmael Day!