Some note with its discordant jar
The purest harmony will mar.
The “wires” convey a rumor dread,
That Lincoln, our great chief, is dead!
Yes, murdered by the assassin’s hand,
While joy pervaded all the land;
When victory had crowned our arms,
And freed us from war’s dread alarms;
And men would Sumter’s flag restore,
As it had been in days of yore;