President McKinley Dead

The stifled sob from Buffalo, the weary sigh of pain,
Are heard upon the continent, they echo on the main.
From San Juan to Luzon, and Alaska’s arctic shore;
The sorrow reaches wider than the sorrows gone before.

The signs of death and mourning hang about the village square;
And people weep and whisper as in gloom they gather there.
The banner of the nation is half-mast on land and sea;
As it floats above the common, as it flutters o’er the lee.

The thunder of the minute gun rolls out across the moor;
It rattles in the mountain tops, it shakes the cabin door.
And in the little cottage, and the palace on the bay,
Each face betokens sadness on this dark depressing day.

Crowds gather at the Chieftain’s bier: his earthly work is done;
Forever more his fame will shine as brightly as the sun.
The mighty hosts will muster in his own Ohio town,
To shed a tear in silence as they close the casket down.