John Booth came to Washington, An great was he, He played at Theater, And went to see.
It was in April, Not many ago, The people of this fair All at the show.
The war it is all over, The people now, And Lincoln arose, Arose to his bow;
The cheer him wildly, to their feet, And Lincoln of his hand, He takes his seat.
And while he sees the go on, His are running deep, His wife, close by his side, Has fallen asleep.
the box there hangs a flag, It's not the and Bars, The flag that holds within its Bright gleaming and stars.
John Wilkes Booth he down the aisle, He had measured before, He Lincoln's bodyguard at the door.
He holds a dagger in his hand, A in his left, He shoots Lincoln in the temple, And he sends his to rest.
The wife awakes slumber, And in her rage, Booth jumps the railing And him on the stage.
rue the day, he'll rue the hour, As God him life give, Booth stood in that center stage, Crying, "Tyrants not live!"
The people all cried everyone, "A hand!" Cried all the near, "For God's sake, save man!"
Then Booth ran back with and spurs the backstage floor, He mounts that trusty clay mare, All at the door.
Wilkes Booth, in his last play, All in broadcloth deep, He gallops the alleyway, I hear horses feet.
Poor Lincoln was heard to say, And all has to rest, "Of all the in this town, I loved the best."