Our chieftain was so fair and grand,
A typical ruler of the land;
His heart was full of love and strong;
He spurned all thoughts of doing wrong;
He loved his work, and did it well;
A nation’s martyr he lived and fell.
Poor soul! He’s gone to heavenly bliss,
Slain by a fiendish anarchist.
The
nation mourns.
He lived a peaceful, happy life,
And sought to appease the nation’s strife;
He sought the enemy not in blood,
But by the rule: Do right, do good.
Lo, in his trying and dying hour
He stayed the lawless hand of power
And asked the people to desist
And lawfully deal with anarchists!
The
nation mourns. [174][175]
O, who can say he was not peer?
Radiant with light was his career.
The Ship of State he rightly manned,
And freedom gave to distant lands;
But in his prime a fiendish knave
Struck down this mortal to the grave,
And marred the nation’s happiness
By banded clans called “anarchists.”
The
nation mourns.
The nation mourns the loss of one
Who prosperous times both sought and won,
And now there comes a cloud of gloom.
Immortalized will be his tomb;
We’ll call to freemen: “Come, rebel
Against those hands by which he fell!”
There must be law to give redress
Against such men as anarchists.
The
nation mourns.
The earth has claimed our noble chief;
His name still lingers in bold relief;
His soul has gone with saints to dwell,
While anarchy makes of earth a hell.
Their fate is sealed; they have no love.
The deeds of martyrs blessings prove.
There is a home of joy and bliss
Where reigns no fiendish anarchists.
The
nation mourns.
.
