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James Austin Butterfield
1837 - 1891
Great Britain, England / United States of America
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J.A. Butterfield
James (Austin) Butterfield (18/05/1837 - 07/1891), an English - American composer and musician; born in Great Berkhampsted, Hertfordshire, England, died in Chicago, Illinois, USA
Lincoln's Requiem
Composed in:1865
Musical form:song
Text/libretto:Irene Boynton
Lincoln's Requiem (1865), a song (lyrics by Irene Boynton) in memory of Abraham Lincoln (1809 1865), the 16th President of the United States, serving from March 1861 until his assassination.
Lincoln's Requiem (lyrics by Irene Boynton)

Dead! dead! how swift the dire news flies,
And wakes a nation's agonies!
From town to town, from mouth to mouth,
Swift spreads the dreaded message forth;
In lowly cot, in lordly hall,
This grief enshrouds and covers all.
And on the breast droops ev'ry head,
In sorrow for the noble dead.

Oh, weep for fallen greatness! weep!
Let tears express our woes;
But while our Lincoln's soul doth sleep,
Brave men strike down his foes!

Dead! dead! but not as warriors die,
He fell not shouting battle cry
Not in the open light of heav'n
Not in his home his soul was riven
Not on the plain where hand to hand
The brave cross blade with foemen's brand,
But where the waves of pleasure flow,
Death aim'd his shaft thro' secret foe.


Dead! dead! and now when hopes were high,
And war's dread curse was passing by,
When traitors had their madness stay'd,
And hero hands sheathed vengeful blade,
When homes and hearthstones gleamd afar,
To manly hearts grown tired of war,
And long wooed peace had left the sky,
It was no time for him to die.


Dead! dead! and when the millions free
Sent up their shouts of liberty,
When from the depths of bondage wrung,
Sweet freedoms song, by freedmen sung;
When million hearts their thanks out pour'd
And angel ears in pleasure heard,
When words his hand has trac'd live on
It is not meet to mourn him gone.


Dead! dead! and has he died in vain?
Shall we in lethargy remain?
His years of patriot toil forget
Shall unavenged his life sun set?
No! for this blow in treach'ry given,
The smoke of strife shall rise to heav'n,
And 'till our flag in triumph waves
His foes and ours find bloody graves!

A. Lincoln