Father Ryan, Poet-Priest Of The Confederacy

From Confederate Digest:

Mar 10, 2011 (19 hours ago)

Father Ryan, Poet-Priest of the Confederacy

from Confederate Digest by J. Stephen Conn

 

 

Confederate Battle Flag





The first Confederate national flag, known

as the “Stars and Bars,” often proved

indistinguishable from the Stars and

Stripes in the thick of battle.

The battle flag, created in 1861,

became the icon of the Confederacy
 
 
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!



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!