Sir Knight, William McKinley

Where the plaudits of the Nation
     Vied with Niagara’s roar,
Columbia is weeping as
     She twice has wept before.
Where no pomp or gleaming tinsel
     To stir a sordid hate,
Near the resting place of Filmore
     McKinley meets his fate.

’Neath the dome of Music’s temple,
     Where cadence lent its charm,
Amid his tried and trusted friends,
     No thought of pending harm;
’Neath the flag whose folds had greeted
     His onward march to fame,
Here, he falls a faultless victim
     To blear assassin’s aim.

Thrice the Nation bows in sorrow
     At such untimely call;
Thrice the Nations view with horror
     This last recurring pall.
A chieftain from the bivouac,
     Of war’s alarm and dread,
A statesman of the noblest mold,
     By dastard hand is dead.

Aye, a sovereign of the people,
     Esteemed throughout the land;
The “ship of state” he guided well,
     With no uncertain hand.
Yes, a cherished frater fallen,
     His country’s cause the best;
Sadly the requiem chanted,
     Peaceful, his final rest.