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The Conquered Banner.
FURL that banner, for 'tis weary;
Furl it-fold it: it is best;
For there's not a man to wave it,
And its foes now scorn and brave it!
Take that banner down! 'Tis tattered!
Over whom it floated high.
Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it—
Hard to think there's none to hold it!
Furl that banner! Furl it sadly!
Swore it should forever wave!
Swore that foeman's sword should never
O'er their freedom or their grave.
Furl it! For the hands that grasped it,
And that banner prone is trailing,
For, though conquered, they adore it;
Pardon those who trailed and tore it—
Now to furl and fold it so!
Furl that banner! True, 'tis gory;
And 'twill live in song and story,
Though now prostrate in the dust!
For its fame, on brightest pages
Furl its folds though now we must!
Furl that banner! sadly-slowly!
For it waves above the dead.
Touch it not-unfurl it never!
For its people's hopes are dead!