Take that banner down, ’tis weary,
Round its staff ’tis drooping dreary,
Furl it, hide it, let it rest;
For there’s not a man to wave it—
For there’s not a soul to lave it
In the blood that heroes gave it.
Furl it, hide it, let it rest.
Take that banner down, ’tis tattered;
Broken is its staff, and shattered;
And the valiant hearts 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 six millions hailed it gladly,
And three hundred thousand madly,
Swore it should forever wave—
Swore that foeman’s sword should never
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever—
That their 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 its 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—
Oh! how 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—
Sung by poets, penned by sages—
Shall go sounding down to ages—
Furl its folds though now we must.
Furl that banner—softly, slowly;
Furl it gently, it is holy,
For it droops above the dead.
Touch it not, unfurl it never,
Let it droop there, furled forever,
For its people’s hopes are fled. |