"The Conquered Banner" (1866) 
Grand Solo
for Mezzo Soprano or Baritone.
Words by Moina. 
Music by Theodore von La Hache, Op. 645

New Orleans: A.E. Blackmar, 167 Canal Street
J. E. Boehler lith. 
Wehrmann Eng.
Plate No. 170
[Source: 093/034@Levy]

1. 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 
In the blood that heroes gave it, 
And its foes now scorn and brave it; 
Furl it, hide it, let it rest. 

 2. Take that Banner down, tis tattered, 
Broken in 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 mend furl it with a sigh. 

3. Furl that Banner! furl it sadly, 
Once too thousands hailed it gladly 
And ten thousands wildly madly 
Swore it would for ever wave, 
Swore the foeman’s sword could sever 
Hearts like theirs entwined, dissevver 
’Tiss that flag should float forever 
O’er their freedom or their grave. 

4. 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, 
And oh! wildly they deplore it 
Now to furl and fold it so. 


5. Furl that Banner! true, ’tis gory, 
Yet ’tis wreathed around with glory, 
And ’twill live in song and story 
Though its fold are in the dust, 
For its fame on brightest pages 
Penned by poets and by sages, 
Shall go sounding down through 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, furl’d it ever! 
For the people’s hopes are dead!