THE CONQUERED BANNER & A REPLY TO THE CONQUERED BANNER

I recited these poems many a time as a boy, heartfelt and loved.

THE CONQUERED BANNER
by Abram Joseph Ryan (1838-1886)

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 no one left to lave it In the blood that heroes gave it; And its foes now scorn and brave it; Furl it, hide it--let it rest!

Take that banner down! 'tis tattered; Broken is its shaft and shattered; And the valiant hosts 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 ten thousands hailed it gladly. And ten thousands wildly, madly, Swore it should forever wave; Swore that foeman's sword should never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, Till that 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! Pardon those who trailed and tore it!

But, oh! wildly they deplored it! Now who 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 gently--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!

A REPLY TO THE CONQUERED BANNER
by Sir Henry Houghton, Bart. (1809-1885)

Gallant nation, foiled by numbers! Say not that your hopes are fled; Keep that glorious flag which slumbers, One day to avenge your dead.

Keep it, widowed, sonless mothers! Keep it, sisters, mourning brothers! Furl it now, but keep it still--

Think not that its work is done. Keep it till your children take it, Once again to hall and make it, All their sires have bled and fought for; All their noble hearts have sought for-- Bled and fought for all alone! All alone! ay, shame the story!

Millions here deplore the stain; Shame, alas! for England's glory, Freedom called, and called in vain!

Furl that banner, sadly, slowly, Treat it gently, for 'tis holy; Till that day--yes, furl it sadly; Then once more unfurl it gladly-- Conquered banner! keep it still!