Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary； Round its staff 'tis drooping² dreary³； 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 not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it； And its foes⁴ now scorn and brave it； Furl it, hide it -let it rest！

    Take that Banner down！ 'tis tattered⁵； Broken is its staff and shattered； And the valiant⁶ hosts are scattered⁷ 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 wailing⁸ Of its people in their woe⁹.

    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 deplore¹⁰ it, Now who furl and fold it so.

    Furl that Banner！ True, 'tis gory¹¹, 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 sages¹², 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 droops¹³ above the dead. Touch it not —— unfold it never, Let it droop¹ there, furled forever, For its people's hopes are dead！