 | War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. |  |
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ABRAM J. RYAN.
Rev. Abram J. Ryan, or "Father Ryan, the poet-priest of the
South," as he is familiarly called, was born in Norfolk, Virginia,
in 1834. His parents came from Limerick, Ireland. He was
educated in St. Louis, and in the Ecclesiastical Seminary, at
Niagara, N. Y., and ordained to the Roman Catholic priesthood.
He served during the war in the Confederate Army as a
chaplain. After the war he was in charge of various churches,
and for thirteen years lived in Mobile, Ala, He died in the
Francescan Monastery, at Louisville, Ky., April 23, 1886. His
complete poetical works have been published in a large and
elegant volume. His genius and patriotism are dear to the
people of the South.
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!
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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!
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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!
THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE.
Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright,
Flashed the sword of Lee!
Far in the front of the deadly fight,
High o'er the brave in the cause of right,
Its stainless sheen, like a beacon-light,
Led us to victory.
Flashed the sword of Lee!
Far in the front of the deadly fight,
High o'er the brave in the cause of right,
Its stainless sheen, like a beacon-light,
Led us to victory.
Out of its scabbard where, full long,
It slumbered peacefully,
Roused from its rest by the battle's song,
Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong,
Guarding the right, avenging the wrong,
Gleamed the sword of Lee.
It slumbered peacefully,
Roused from its rest by the battle's song,
Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong,
Guarding the right, avenging the wrong,
Gleamed the sword of Lee.
Forth from its scabbard, high in air,
Beneath Virginia's sky—
And they who saw it gleaming there,
And knew who bore it, knelt to swear
That where that sword led they would dare
To follow and to die.
Beneath Virginia's sky—
And they who saw it gleaming there,
And knew who bore it, knelt to swear
That where that sword led they would dare
To follow and to die.
Out of the scabbard! Never hand
Waved sword from stain so free,
Nor purer sword led braver band,
Nor braver bled for a brighter land,
Nor brighter land had a cause so grand,
Nor cause a chief like Lee!
Waved sword from stain so free,
Nor purer sword led braver band,
Nor braver bled for a brighter land,
Nor brighter land had a cause so grand,
Nor cause a chief like Lee!
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Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed
That sword might victor be;
And when our triumph was delayed,
And many a heart grew sore afraid,
We still hoped on while gleamed the blade
Of noble Robert Lee.
That sword might victor be;
And when our triumph was delayed,
And many a heart grew sore afraid,
We still hoped on while gleamed the blade
Of noble Robert Lee.
Forth from its scabbard all in vain,
Bright flashed the sword of Lee;
'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again,
It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain,
Defeated, yet without a stain,
Proudly and peacefully!
Bright flashed the sword of Lee;
'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again,
It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain,
Defeated, yet without a stain,
Proudly and peacefully!
THE SOUTHERN SOLDIER BOY.
Young as the youngest who donned the gray,
True as the truest who wore it,
Brave as the bravest he marched away,
(Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay,)
Triumphant waved our flag one day,
He fell in the front before it.
True as the truest who wore it,
Brave as the bravest he marched away,
(Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay,)
Triumphant waved our flag one day,
He fell in the front before it.
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CHORUS:—A grave in the wood with the grass o'er-grown,
A grave in the heart of his mother,
His clay in the one, lifeless and lone,
But his memory lives in the other.
A grave in the heart of his mother,
His clay in the one, lifeless and lone,
But his memory lives in the other.
Firm as the firmest where duty led,
He hurried without a falter;
Bold as the boldest he fought and bled,
And the day was won—but Jhe field was red;
And the blood of his fresh young heart was shed,
On his country's hallowed altar.
CHORUS:—A grave in the wood with the grass o'er-grown, etc.
He hurried without a falter;
Bold as the boldest he fought and bled,
And the day was won—but Jhe field was red;
And the blood of his fresh young heart was shed,
On his country's hallowed altar.
CHORUS:—A grave in the wood with the grass o'er-grown, etc.
On the trampled breast of the battle-plain,
Where the foremost ranks had wrestled,
The fairest form 'mid all the slain,
Like a child asleep he nestled;
In the solemn shade of the woods that swept
The field where his comrades found him,
They buried him there—and strong men wept,
As in silence they gathered 'round him.
CHORUS:—A grave in the wood with the grass o'er-grown, etc.
Where the foremost ranks had wrestled,
The fairest form 'mid all the slain,
Like a child asleep he nestled;
In the solemn shade of the woods that swept
The field where his comrades found him,
They buried him there—and strong men wept,
As in silence they gathered 'round him.
CHORUS:—A grave in the wood with the grass o'er-grown, etc.
| War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. | |