 | War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. |  |
THE CONQUERED BANNER.
Furl that banner! for 'tis weary,
'Round its 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 its foes now scorn and brave it—
Furl it, hide it; let it rest!
'Round its 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 its foes now scorn and brave it—
Furl it, hide it; let it rest!
94
Take that banner down! Tis tattered!
Broken is its staff and shattered;
And the valiant hosts are scattered,
O'er 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!
Broken is its staff and shattered;
And the valiant hosts are scattered,
O'er 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 six millions hailed it gladly,
And ten thousands wildly, madly,
Swore it should forever wave!
Swore that foeman's sword should never
Hearts entwined like theirs dissever;
And upheld by brave endeavor,
That dear flag should float forever
O'er their freedom or their grave.
Once six millions hailed it gladly,
And ten thousands wildly, madly,
Swore it should forever wave!
Swore that foeman's sword should never
Hearts entwined like theirs dissever;
And upheld by brave endeavor,
That dear 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 prone is trailing,
While around it sounds are wailing
Of its people in their wo!
And the hearts that fondly clasped it,
Cold and dead are lying low;
And that banner prone is trailing,
While around it sounds are wailing
Of its people in their wo!
95
For. though conquered, they adore it,
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it,
Weep for those that fell before it—
Pardon those who trailed and tore it;
And, oh, wildly they deplore it,
Now to furl and fold it so!
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it,
Weep for those that fell before it—
Pardon those who trailed and tore it;
And, oh, wildly they deplore it,
Now to furl and fold it so!
Furl that banner! True, 'tis gory,
But 'tis wreathed around with glory,
And 'twill live in song and story,
Though its folds are in the dust!
For its fame on brightest pages,
Penned by poets and by sages,
Shall go sounding down the ages,
Furl its folds though now we must.
But 'tis wreathed around with glory,
And 'twill live in song and story,
Though its folds are in the dust!
For its fame on brightest pages,
Penned by poets and by sages,
Shall go sounding down the ages,
Furl its folds though now we must.
Furl that banner! sadly, slowly!
Treat it gently-it is holy,
For it waves above the dead;
Touch it not-unfold it never!
Let it lie there, furled forever,
For its people's hopes are dead!
Treat it gently-it is holy,
For it waves above the dead;
Touch it not-unfold it never!
Let it lie there, furled forever,
For its people's hopes are dead!
| War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. | |