Ruth A. Black

Oh, the cadence of the march
and the muffled sound of drum,
As they bear the hero on to the
Waiting grave beyond -
With the flag all neatly furled
On his bosom laid with love,
While the men in silent tribute bow
Their heads in quiet prayer;
And the honor guard advances passing
Many muted stares -
As a nation deep in mourning hails
The passing of it's "Chief."
While the distant sound of taps
O'er the circling hills above
Echoes out the sound of morning
As another age is done;
And the circling hills above whisper
Round the woeful sound
To a nation deep in mourning
As another age is done;
While the distant sound of taps
O'er the circling hills above
Echoes out the sound of mourning
To the valleys far below.