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 deep, Fair as a 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 Fredrick 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...