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Swore that foeman's sword could never Hearts like their's entwined dissever, 'Till that flag would 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 tying low ; And the 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, 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, Yet '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! softly, slowly, Treat it gentry—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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