AY GOULD is dead.
  Along the wires the message sped,
  Across Nebraska’s plains, the
  Rockies’ slope,—
  From Denver down to Gaudalope
  Amid the never ceasing din
  Of clicking keys, the bulletin
  Told its quick tale and scurried on—
  From Fundy's bay to Oregon—
  "Jay Gould is dead."

"Jay Gould is dead—"
The weary operator raised his head
And whistled in a thoughtful way:
"Death gets us all at last—so good bye Jay"—
Drew a short sigh, but shed no tear
And wondered if his pay would rise next year;
And if the W. U. would ever recognize
The talent of a man about his size—
Now that Jay Gould was dead.

"Jay Gould is dead"—
On crowded change and bustling thoroughfare
Proclaim the fate of wizard millionaire:
Bold Speculation pauses while it bends—
To question the effect on dividends;
And Labor asks while leaning on its spade
"How many millions, Pat, that divil Jay has made?"
And guessing at the numbers shakes its head,—
"It’s just as well, perhaps, Jay Gould is dead."

"Jay Gould is dead"—
The farmer in his field
Reflects while plowing on the harvest yield,
And whether, when the wheat’s again in shock,
It must pay dividends on watered stock,
Or he can pay his debts and get ahead—
Since old Jay Gould is dead.

"Jay Gould is dead—"
Shall no one shed a tear?
Go tell the railroad man, the clear-
Eyed switchman at his post, the engineer—
Missouri Pacific, Wabash or Sante Fe.—
And listen while he wipes the—dust—away:
"Jay Gould is gone, is he, well.
There’s better men the Bible says in hell."
The man of master mind
Rolled up his millions, but forgot mankind—
And mankind struggling for its daily bread
Hears with no heartache that Jay Gould is dead.


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