Death of McKinley

’Twas at Buffalo’s exhibition,
     A very grand display,
The choicest products of all the land,
     A gorgeous array.

There the nation’s executive came,
     His people for to greet,
And honor with his voice and presence,
     That gathering complete.

Great crowds, rich and poor alike, came there,
     Some came from other climes,
To see art and science and the man
     Most noted of the times.

A recreant came in friendly guise,
     And greeting, reached his hand
To the nation’s chosen, the leader,
     And highest in the land.

An ominous, fearful sound was heard,
     The harbinger of death,
The President fell with mortal wound,
     And laboring for breath. [42][43]

The good man, the devoted husband,
     No power on earth could save,
But lingering here a short space of time,
     To God his spirit gave.

And when near to the end of his life,
     He bid them all adieu,
In God’s care he left his chosen one,
     That good man kind and true.

At peace with God and the world he died,
     In deep tranquility,
A glorious song was in his mouth:
     “Nearer my God to Thee.”

The neighbors near were all horrified,
     Their flags were drooping low,
The shock of that fearful tragedy
     Had filled their hearts with woe.

There was a message came from Edward,
     That good king on the throne;
He expressed the nation’s sympathy,
     With tenderness his own.

The Russian bear wore a sombre look,
     In gloom he bowed his head,
I and my people send condolence,
     That is what Adam said. [43][44]

France sends you her most profound regrets,
     The lillies [sic] they turned pale,
We are sad, but for the dead and gone,
     ’Twill be of no avail.

A long lament came from the Germans,
     From William, the inspired,
We’re grieved, the great chief of your nation
     Should have thus gone, expired.

A wail came from philosophic Greece,
     King George was very sad,
We regret your sorrow caused by
     The tragedy you’ve had.

A cloud hung o’er Italia’s sunny vails [sic],
     Grief sat on Pope Leo’s face,
Our sympathy is yours, the vile one
     Struck in the highest place.

With national martial pomp and honors,
     And flags draped o’er his breast,
With slow tread and sound of muffled drum,
     They laid him down to rest.

He sleeps with the illustrious dead,
     Where good and great men lay,
Reposing until the trump of God
     Shall call them from the clay.