By Abram J. Ryan
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!