“The Story of the Glory of our Bonnie Bonnie Flag”

Rev. A. J. Ryan

 

Tell it as you may,

It never can be told;

Sing it as you will

It never can be sung:

The story of the glory

of the men who wore the gray,

In their graves, so still;

The story of the living,

Unforgiven, yet forgiving,

The victims still of hate.

Who have forever clung,

With a love that will not die,

To the memories of the Past,

Who are patient and who wait,

True and faithful to the last, -

For the Easter morning sky,

When Wrong’s rock shall roll away

From the sepulchre of Right,

And the Right shall rise again

In the brightness of a light,

That shall never fade away,

Triumphantly and glorious

To teach once more to men,

The Conquered are victorious.

The Conquered in the strife,

Thro’ their children yet shall reign

By their patience and their peace;

They shall fill the people’s life,

From Right’s ever virgin vein,

With the purest blood that flows,

Made the purer by our woes,

Without stain and without cease,

Till the children of our foes

Shall be proud and glad to claim

And to write upon one scroll

Every dear and deathless name

On our Southern muster roll.

Ah! we rebels met defeat

On the gory battle-field,

And we flung our muskets down,

When our Bonnie flag was furled;

But our right did not retreat

With pure honor for her shield,

And with justice for her crown

From the forces of the world; -

(For against us thousands came,

Money-bought from every clime,

But we stood against them all,

For the honor of our name,

Till the fated day of time

Came but to crown our Fall

With a fadeless wreath of Fame)

Retreat into that shrine,

Back of every Southern breast

Your hearts, my friends, and mine,

Where Right finds a hold Rest

On the alter-stairs that slope

Toward the throne where reigns the Just,

Where we still live on and hope,

And in Him we place our trust.

Is it treason thus to sing?

Why, then treason let it be,

Must we stoop to fawn on wrong?

To the idol must we bring

Our hearts’ idolatry

And the feality of song?

No, No;  the past is past -

May it never come again;

May no drum, or bugle’s blast

Summon warriors to the plain!

The battle’s play is o’er,

We’ve staked our all and lost -

The red wild waves that tossed

The Southland’s sacred bark

Are sleeping on the shore.

She went down in the dark;

Is it wrong for us to listen

To the waves that still will glisten

Where the wreck we loved went down?

Is it wrong to watch the willows

That are drooping o’er the grave?

Is it wrong to love our brave?

Are our memories a treason

To the Powers we must obey?

Can the victor give a reason

Why the men who wore the gray

From our hearts should march away

And should pass from us forever,

Like the dreamings of the night?

Do they want the South to sever

The blood-consecrated ties,

The sacred bonds of sorrow

That will link our last tomorrow

To the glory hallowed Past?

Ah! our hearts cry:  Never!  Never!

For each soldier’s heart that dies

In our memories still is beating,

Tho’ the years are fast retreating

We remember to the last.

Nay, tell it as you may

It never can be told.

And sing it as you will

It never can be sung -

The story of the glory of our Bonnie, Bonnie Flag

When the battlewings were waving in the valley, on the crag,

On the billows of the ocean, by the rivers’ winding shore.

The years have passed away

But, ah, ‘tis flinging still

Around our hearts today

The selfsame spell it flung

O’er our soldiers in their gray.

Back of lines that never quailed -

Far from battle banner’s flash -

There were lips that moaned and wailed,

And how many eyes that wept;

Tho’ they heard no cannon crash

Nor the terror storms of lead,

And they sighed while they slept

When they dreamed their own were dead.

Mothers, wives and children fair,

Back of all the ranks that fought,

Knelt adown in holy prayer,

And in heaven only sought,

In their infinite despair,

Gleams of hope to light the night

Darkly gathering o’er the Right.

Can a singer gather up,

In the chalices of song,

Half the tears that fill the cup

Of the griefs of such a throng,

Crimson drops on battle plain

Thro’ four sorrow-laden years, -

Were they richer than the rain

That baptized our homes with tears?

Nay;  no singer yet has sung,

Long to tell how hearts have bled,

Where our soldiers homes among,

Wept eyes waiting for the dead.

 

Leader of the men in gray;

Chieftain - truest of the true -

Write our story as you may,

And you did, but even you,

With your pen could never write

Half the story of our land.

Yours the heart and yours the land -

Sentinels of the Southern sight;

Yours the brave true eloquence -

Your true words our last defense,

Warrior words - but even they

Fail as failed our men in gray;

Fail to tell the story grand

Of our cause and of our land.