If I'm not mistaken, you'll long have to search
Before you discover this old City church:
But it's whereabouts I don't intend to betray,
Though a pilgrim each week to the shrine of Saint May!
The one bell is cracked in its crazy old tower,
The sermon oft lasts rather more than an hour;
The parson is prosy, the clerk eighty-three,
The organ drones out in a sad minor key:
Yet how quickly the moments, I find, fly away,
I pass every week 'neath the spell of Saint May.