Off with your gray suits, boys,
Off with your rebel gear!
They smack too much of the cannon's peal,
The lightning flash of your deadly steel,
The terror of your spear.
Their color is like the smoke
That curled o'er your battle-line;
They call to mind the yell that woke
When the dastard columns before you broke,
And their dead were your fatal sign.
Off with the starry wreath,
Ye who have led our van;
To you 'twas the pledge of glorious death,
When we followed you over the gory heath,
Where we whipped them man to man.
Down with the cross of stars--
Too long hath it waved on high;
'Tis covered all over with battle-scars,
But its gleam the Northern banner mars--
'Tis time to lay it by.
Down with the vows we've 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.