by Abram Joseph Ryan.
Furl that banner, for 'tis weary,
'Round it's staff 'tis drooping dreary,
Furl it, fold it, it is best;
For there's not a man to wave it,
And there's not a sword to save it,
And there's not one left to lave it,
In the blood which heroes gave it,
And it's foes now scorn and brave it;
Furl it, hide it—let it rest!
Take that banner down! 'tis tattered;
Broken is it's staff and shattered;
And the valiant hosts are scattered
Over whom it floated high.
Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it;
Hard to think there's none to hold it;
Hard that those who once unrolled it,
Now must furl it with a sigh.
Furl that banner! Furl it sadly!
Once ten thousand hailed it gladly,
And ten thousand wildly, madly,
Swore it should forever wave;
Swore that foeman's sword should never
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever,
Till that flag should float forever
O'er their freedom or their grave!
Furl it! For the hands that grasped it,
And the hearts that fondly clasped it,
Cold and dead are lying low;
And that banner—it is trailing!
While around it sounds the wailing
Of it's people in their woe.
For though conquered, they adore it!
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it!
Weep for those who fell before it!
Pardon those who trailed and tore it!
But, oh! Wildly they deplore it,
Now who furl and fold it so.
Furl that banner! True 'tis gory,
Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory,
And 'twill live in song and story,
Though it's folds are in the dust;
For it's fame on brightest pages,
Penned by poets and by sages,
Shall go sounding down the ages—
Furl it's folds though now we must.
Furl that banner, softly, slowly,
Treat it gently—it is holy—
For it droops above the dead,
Touch it not—unfold it never,
Let it droop there, furled forever,
For its people's hopes are dead!
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