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John Wilkes Booth came to Washington, |
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An actor great was he, |
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He played at Ford's Theater, |
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And Lincoln went to see. |
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It was early in April, |
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Not many weeks ago, |
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The people of this fair city |
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All gathered at the show. |
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The war it is all over, |
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The people happy now, |
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And Abraham Lincoln arose, |
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Arose to make his bow; |
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The people cheer him wildly, |
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Arising to their feet, |
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And Lincoln waving of his hand, |
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He calmly takes his seat. |
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And while he sees the play go on, |
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His thoughts are running deep, |
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His darling wife, close by his side, |
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Has fallen fast asleep. |
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From the box there hangs a flag, |
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It's not the Stars and Bars, |
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The flag that holds within its folds |
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Bright gleaming stripes and stars. |
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John Wilkes Booth he moves down the aisle, |
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He had measured once before, |
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He passes Lincoln's bodyguard |
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A-nodding at the door. |
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He holds a dagger in his right hand, |
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A pistol in his left, |
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He shoots poor Lincoln in the temple, |
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And he sends his soul to rest. |
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The wife awakes from slumber, |
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And screams in her rage, |
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Booth jumps over the railing |
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And lands him on the stage. |
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He'll rue the day, he'll rue the hour, |
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As God him life shall give, |
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When Booth stood in that center stage, |
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Crying, "Tyrants shall not live!" |
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The people all excited |
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Then cried everyone, "A hand!" |
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Cried all the people near, |
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"For God's sake, save that man!" |
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Then Booth ran back with boot and spurs |
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Across the backstage floor, |
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He mounts that trusty claybank mare, |
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All saddled at the door. |
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John Wilkes Booth, in his last play, |
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All dressed in broadcloth deep, |
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He gallops down the alleyway, |
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I hear those horses feet. |
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Poor Lincoln then was heard to say, |
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And all has gone to rest, |
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"Of all the actors in this town, |
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I loved Booth the best." |
