Prose and Poetry

War poetry of the South

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The Poetry of Father Ryan

Abram Joseph Ryan, 1839-1886     http://www.fatherryanhouse.com/

                         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' not a sword to save it,
                         And there's not one left to lave it
                         In the blood which 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 staff 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 deplore 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!

                      GATHER the sacred dust
                         Of the warriors tried and true,
                         Who bore the flag of our People's trust   
                         And fell in a cause, though lost still just
                         And died for me and you.

                         Gather them one and all!
                         From the Private to the Chief,
                         Come they from hovel or princely hall,
                         They fell for us, and for them should fall
                         The tears of a Nation's grief.

                         Gather the corpses strewn
                         O'er many a battle plain;
                         From many a grave that lies so lone,
                         Without a name and without a stone,
                         Gather the Southern slain.

                         We care not whence they came,
                         Dear in their lifeless clay!
                         Whether unknown, or known to fame,
                         Their cause and country still the same--
                         They died--and wore the Gray.

                         Wherever the brave have died,
                         They should not rest apart;
                         Living they struggled side by side--
                         Why should the hand of Death divide
                         A single heart from heart.

                         Gather their scattered clay,
                         Wherever it may rest;
                         Just as they marched to the bloody fray;
                         Just as they fell on the battle day;
                         Bury them breast to breast.

                         The foeman need not dread
                         This gathering of the brave;
                         Without sword or flag, and with soundless tread,
                         We muster once more our deathless dead;
                         Out of each lonely grave.

                         The foeman need not frown,
                         They all are powerless now--
                         We gather them here and we lay them down,
                         And tears and prayers are the only crown
                         We bring to wreathe each brow.

                         And the dead thus meet the dead,
                         While the living o'er them weep;
                         And the men by Lee and Stonewall led,
                         And the hearts that once together bled,
                         Together still shall sleep.

                         DO we weep for the heroes who died for us?
                         Who living were true and tried for us,
                         And dying sleep side by side for us;--
                         The Martyr-band
                         That hallowed our land
                         With the blood they shed in a tide for us.

                         Ah! fearless on many a day for us
                         They stood in the front of the fray for us,
                         And held the foeman at bay for us,
                         And tears should fall
                         Fore'er o'er all
                         Who fell while wearing the gray for us.

                         How many a glorious name for us,
                         How many a story of fame for us,
                         They left,--would it not be a blame for us,
                         If their memories part
                         From our land and heart,
                         And a wrong to them, and shame for us?

                         No--no--no--they were brave for us,
                         And bright were the lives they gave for us,--
                         The land they struggled to save for us
                         Will not forget
                         Its warriors yet
                         Who sleep in so many a grave for us.

                         On many and many a plain for us
                         Their blood poured down all in vain for us,
                         Red, rich and pure,--like a rain for us;
                         They bleed,--we weep,
                         We live,--they sleep--
                         "All Lost"--the only refrain for us.

                         But their memories e'er shall remain for us,
                         And their names, bright names, without stain for us,--
                         The glory they won shall not wane for us,
                         In legend and lay
                         Our heroes in gray
                         Shall forever live over again for us.

                         FORTH from its scabbard pure and bright,
                         Flashed the sword of Lee!
                         Far in the front of the deadly fight
                         High o'er the brave in the cause of Right
                         Its stainless sheen like a beacon light
                         Led us to Victory.

                         Out of its scabbard where full long
                         It slumbered peacefully,--
                         Roused from its rest by the battle's song
                         Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong
                         Guarding the right, avenging the wrong
                         Gleamed the sword of Lee.

                         Forth from its scabbard high in air
                         Beneath Virginia's sky--
                         And they who saw it gleaming there
                         And knew who bore it knelt to swear,
                         That where that sword led, they would dare
                         To follow and to die.

                         Out of its scabbard!--never hand
                         Waved sword from stain as free,
                         Nor purer sword led braver band,
                         Nor braver bled for a brighter land,
                         Nor brighter land had a Cause so grand,
                         Nor cause a chief like Lee.

                         Forth from its scabbard! how we prayed,
                         That sword might victor be;--
                         And when our triumph was delayed,
                         And many a heart grew sore afraid,
                         We still hoped on while gleamed the blade
                         Of noble Robert Lee.

                         Forth from its scabbard! all in vain
                         Bright flashed the sword of Lee;--
                         'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again,
                         It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain;
                         Defeated yet without a stain,
                         Proudly and peacefully.