They found the choir’s great trouble sitting in his old arm-chair,
And the summer’s golden sunbeams lay upon his thin white hair;
He was singing “Rock of Ages” in a voice both cracked and low,
But the angels understood him, ’twas all he cared to know.
Said York: “We’re here, dear brother, with the vestry’s approbation,
To discuss a little matter that affects the congregation;”
“And the choir, too,” said Sharkey, giving Brother York a nudge,
“And the choir, too!” he echoed with the graveness of a judge.
“It was the understanding when we bargained for the chorus
That it was to relieve us, that is, do the singing for us;