And the little, gloomy sacristan
Striveth to soothe an aged man,
As they lift from the blazoned bier
The stately drooping pall;
And the old man sees him lying there
His son—his heir—his all!
Thou canst not soothe him, sacristan,
Go to thy cord and corse—
It is a fiend which gnaws that man;
The worst of fiends—Remorse!