Tyrant Sun

Softly dies the tyrant sun
Softly dies the day.

Today we sing the funeral-song.
Throng to thunder out the dirge
Purge the sky in measured tones
And curse the idiot birds along
That peck a box of bones.

Softly dies the tyrant sun
Softly dies the day.

Today we drink the funeral-cup
And sup the feast laid at the wake
Take the whiskey, pour the wine
And praise the dead, and raise it up
To toast the world's design

Softly dies the tyrant sun
Softly dies the day.