It is just a little apron,
That a tiny maid might wear,
When childhood dimpled on her cheeks
And sunlight kissed her hair.
Just a quaint old-fashioned trifle,
Blent with stripes of White and Red,
Wrought tenderly with careful hands,
And earnest, bended head;
But the dust of years sleeps on it,
It is faded, rent, and old;
There are battle marks upon its belt,
And bloodstains in its fold;
Yet a dainty maiden wore it,
As she watched, way up the hill,
Standing in the ancient doorway
Of the busy old stone mill.
And she saw the soldiers coming,
Dispirited and slow;
A sad, retreating army,
In the country of the foe.
Then a shout that woke the woodland
Stirred her heart and filled her ear;
Down the line it flashed and echoed,
And re-echoed, cheer on cheer.
And the strong men dashed the teardrops
That would come, and cheered once more
For the maid who dared to wear it
And the apron that she wore!
It had thrilled the listless legion,
And from heart to heart it swept,
Striking deep the languid pulses,
Where their truth and valor slept;
And they paused, these men of battle —
Paused with grave, uncovered head,
Just to beg a piece, a token,
Of the apron, White and Red.
Then the blue eyes drooped their fringes
On the modest, blushing face;
Then the proud breast swelled with ardor,
As she tore it from its place;
As they fixed it to the flagstaff,
Bound it firmly for the strife,
And the noble youth who bore it
Pledged his valor with his life.
Far away, across the morning,
Through the vale, and down the hill, —
And the flashing wheel had vanished,
With the Blossom of the mill;
On and on! where raged the battle,
On! where hearts must needs be true,
Where the scythe of death was heaping
High the mounds of Gray and Blue!
On and on! with steady marching,
On and on! they could not lag;
For in front the gallant Watkins
Bravely bore the apron flag!
And above the black smoke trailing,
Like a star, it beckoned on;
Then the little apron fluttered,
Then the beacon light was gone.
They lifted him, so softly,
Smoothed the clustered curls apart;
Found the tiny, battle apron,
Closely pillowed on his heart.
And they bent to catch the whisper,
Through the storm and din of strife:
" Take my pledge — 't is not dishonored —
I have kept it with my life! "
It is just a little apron,
And its simple tale is told,
There are battle marks upon its belt,
And bloodstains in its fold!
That a tiny maid might wear,
When childhood dimpled on her cheeks
And sunlight kissed her hair.
Just a quaint old-fashioned trifle,
Blent with stripes of White and Red,
Wrought tenderly with careful hands,
And earnest, bended head;
But the dust of years sleeps on it,
It is faded, rent, and old;
There are battle marks upon its belt,
And bloodstains in its fold;
Yet a dainty maiden wore it,
As she watched, way up the hill,
Standing in the ancient doorway
Of the busy old stone mill.
And she saw the soldiers coming,
Dispirited and slow;
A sad, retreating army,
In the country of the foe.
Then a shout that woke the woodland
Stirred her heart and filled her ear;
Down the line it flashed and echoed,
And re-echoed, cheer on cheer.
And the strong men dashed the teardrops
That would come, and cheered once more
For the maid who dared to wear it
And the apron that she wore!
It had thrilled the listless legion,
And from heart to heart it swept,
Striking deep the languid pulses,
Where their truth and valor slept;
And they paused, these men of battle —
Paused with grave, uncovered head,
Just to beg a piece, a token,
Of the apron, White and Red.
Then the blue eyes drooped their fringes
On the modest, blushing face;
Then the proud breast swelled with ardor,
As she tore it from its place;
As they fixed it to the flagstaff,
Bound it firmly for the strife,
And the noble youth who bore it
Pledged his valor with his life.
Far away, across the morning,
Through the vale, and down the hill, —
And the flashing wheel had vanished,
With the Blossom of the mill;
On and on! where raged the battle,
On! where hearts must needs be true,
Where the scythe of death was heaping
High the mounds of Gray and Blue!
On and on! with steady marching,
On and on! they could not lag;
For in front the gallant Watkins
Bravely bore the apron flag!
And above the black smoke trailing,
Like a star, it beckoned on;
Then the little apron fluttered,
Then the beacon light was gone.
They lifted him, so softly,
Smoothed the clustered curls apart;
Found the tiny, battle apron,
Closely pillowed on his heart.
And they bent to catch the whisper,
Through the storm and din of strife:
" Take my pledge — 't is not dishonored —
I have kept it with my life! "
It is just a little apron,
And its simple tale is told,
There are battle marks upon its belt,
And bloodstains in its fold!