Off with gray suits, boys! Off with your rebel gear! It smacks too much of the cannon's peal, The lightning flash of your deadly steel, And fills our hearts with fear. The color is like the smoke, That curled o'er your battle line; It calls to mind the yell that woke, When the dastard columns before you broke, And their dead wore your fatal sign! Off with your starry wreaths, Ye who have led our van! For you 'twas the pledge of a glorious death, As we followed you over the glorious heath, When we whipped them man to man! Down with the cross and stars! Too long has it waved on high; 'Tis covered all over with battle scars, But its gleam the hated banner mars-- 'Tis time to lay it by. Down with the vows we had made! Down with each memory! Down with the thoughts of our noble dead! Down, down to the dust where their forms are laid, And down with liberty! THE CONFEDERATE NOTE.[19] By S. A. JONAS. Representing nothing on God's earth now, And naught in the water below it, As a pledge of a nation that's dead and gone, Keep it, dear Captain, and show it. Show it to those that will lend an ear To the tale this paper can tell, Of liberty born, of the patriot's dream, Of a storm-cradled nation that fell. Too poor to possess the precious ore, And too much a stranger to borrow, We issue to-day our "promise to pay," And hope to redeem on the morrow. Days rolled by, and weeks became years, But our coffers were empty still; Coin was so rare that the treasurer quakes, If a dollar should drop in the till. [Illustration] But the faith that was in us was strong indeed, And our poverty well we discerned, And these little checks represented the pay That our suffering veterans earned. We knew it had hardly a value in gold, Yet as gold the soldiers received it; It gazed in our eyes with a promise to pay, And each patriot soldier believed it. But our boys thought little of price or pay, Or of bills that were over-due; We knew if it bought our bread to-day, 'Twas the best our country could do. Keep it! it tells all our history over, From the birth of the dream to its last; Modest, and born of the angel Hope, Like our hope of success it passed. THE CONQUERED BANNER. By the Rev. J. A. RYAN, Catholic Priest of Knoxville, Diocese of Nashville, Tenn. Music by A. E. BLACKMAR. [The music of this song can be procured of the Oliver Ditson Co., Boston, Mass., owners of the copyright.] 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, 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.