Found poem (Letter to the Editor, West Chester, PA Morning Republican, Sept. 17, 1901)

President McKinley is dead!
Struck down by the red hand of anarchy.
From the far islands of the sea,
kind messages of tenderness
express their sympathy.

A great man has fallen!
Oh, what a grief,
this hour of our sad affliction
looks peril in the face.

What, you ask, is anarchy?
It is a crime of each degree,
shooting, burning, roasting stock,
theft and midnight burglary.

Hang all barn burners!
Hang all burglars!
Let us have protection,
so that the midnight skies
will not be lurid
with the torch of vagrant tramps
or peaceful air resound
with the crack of the highwayman's
revolver sound.

Death to anarchists, I say,
it is by the quality of our mercy,
that we will all be judged,
It is God's way,
his will be done, not ours.

("It is God's way, his will be done, not ours." were President McKinley's last words)