From hill to hill, from creek to creek,
Potomac calls to Chesapeake,

Maryland, my Maryland!

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll,
Maryland!

Thou wilt not crook to his control,

Maryland!

Better the fire upon thee roll,

Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,
Than crucifixion of the soul,

Maryland, my Maryland!

I hear the distant thunder hum,
Maryland!

The Old Line's bugle, fife, and drum,
Maryland!

She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb;

Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum!

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She breathes! She burns! She'll come! She'll come !
Maryland, my Maryland!

ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN

1839-1886

FATHER RYAN, as he is familiarly called, was born in Norfolk, Virginia, and died in Louisville, Kentucky. He was a Catholic priest, and served as a chaplain in the Confederate army. Of an unusually restless disposition, he edited in turn several religious periodicals and moved from one pastoral charge to another. Much of his verse, written during the heat of war, is no longer remembered; but one or two of his lyrics retain their popularity.

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;

1 Selected from Father Ryan's Poems. Copyright, P. J. Kenedy & Sons, N. Y.

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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 !

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 fled !

ANONYMOUS

These verses first appeared in the Metropolitan Record.

THE CONFEDERATE FLAG

No more o'er human hearts to wave,

Its tattered folds forever furled :

We laid it in an honored grave,

And left its memories to the world.

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The agony of long, long years,

May, in a moment, be compressed,
And with a grief too deep for tears,
A heart may be oppressed.

Oh there are those who die too late

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For faith in God, and Right, and Truth,

That thrill no more to love or glory,

To those who acted well their parts,
Who died in youth and live in glory-

With tears forever be it told,

Until oblivion covers all:

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Until the heavens themselves wear old,

And totter slowly to their fall.