Through groined arch, and by cloister'd stone, With mosses and ivy long o'ergrown, Slowly the throng Come passing along, With many a chaunt and solemn song, Adapted for holidays, high-days, and Sundays,-- _Dies iræ_, and _De profundis_, _Miserere_, and _Domine dirige nos_,-- Such as, I hear, to a very slow tune are all, Commonly chaunted by Monks at a funeral, To secure the defunct's repose, And to give a broad hint to Old Nick, should the news Of a prelate's decease bring him there on a cruise, That he'd better be minding his P's and his Q's, And not come too near,--since they can, if they choose, Make him shake in his hoofs--as he does not wear shoes. Still on they go, A goodly show, With footsteps sure, though certainly slow, Two by two, in a very long row; With feathers, and Mutes In mourning suits, Undertaker's men walking in hat-bands and boots,-- Then comes the Crosier, all jewels and gold, Borne by a lad about eighteen years old; Next, on a black velvet cushion, the Mitre, Borne by a younger boy, 'cause it is lighter. Eight Franciscans, sturdy and strong, Bear, in the midst, the good Bishop along; Eight Franciscans, stout and tall, Walk at the corners, and hold up the pall; Eight more hold a canopy high over all, With eight Trumpeters tooting the Dead March in Saul.-- Behind, as Chief Mourner, the Lord Abbot goes, his Monks coming after him, all with posies, And white pocket-handkerchiefs up at their noses, Which they blow whenever his Lordship blows his-- And oh! 'tis a comely sight to see How Lords and Ladies, of high degree, Vail, as they pass, upon bended knee, While quite as polite are the Squires and the Knights, In their helmets, and hauberks, and cast-iron tights.