Outside the window in old Dublin town,
The streets remain wet from the rain at dawn,
And the dismal skies of Irish renown
Hang leaden-grey, heavy and overdrawn.
Within the humble house weathered with years,
On the ground floor the family does sit,
And floods the room with melancholy tears;
For just upstairs, holy death has been pit.
The bedroom now seems just scarcely aglow
With the light of seven candles holy,
Ignited for the death not long ago
Of a man of office far from lowly.
Amidst faint songs of sorrow soon
to cease,
Rests the body of an old, beloved
priest.