Winter Words Op. 52: V. The Choirmaster's Burial

He often would ask us

That, when he died

After playing so many

To their last rest

If out of us any

Should here abide

And it would not task us

We would with our lutes

Play over him

By his grave-brim

The psalm he liked best

The one whose sense suits

Mount Ephraim

And perhaps we should seem to him

In death's dream

Like the Seraphim

As soon as I knew

That his spirit was gone

I thought, "This is due,"

And spoke thereupon

"I think," said the Vicar

"A red service quicker

Than viols out of doors

In these frosts and whores

That old-fashioned way

Requires a fine day

And it seems to me

It had better not be."

Hence, that afternoon

Though never knew he

That his wish could not be

To get through it faster

They buried the master

Without any tune

But 't was said that when

At the dead of next night

The Vicar looked out

There struck on his cane

Thronged round about

Where the frost was greying

The headstoned grass

A band, all in white

Like the saints in church glass

Singing and playing

Singing, singing and playing

The ancient stave

By the choirmaster's grave

Such the tenor-man told

When he had grown old