No, no, no, take him home again, For his bishop's heart beats there; Cast him not with the common dead, Let him go home and rest his head, Ah! his weary and grief-worn head, On the heart of his father — he is mild For he loved him as his own child.
And they brought him home to the home he blest, With his life so sweet and fair, He blessed it more in his deathly rest — His face was a chiseled prayer, White as the snow, pure as the foam Of a weary wave on the sea, He drifted back — and they placed him where He would love at last to be.
His Father in God thought over the years Of the beautiful happy past; Ah! me! we were happy then; but now, The sorrow has come, and saddest tears Kiss the dead priest's virgin brow.
Who will watch o'er the dead young priest, People and priests and all? No, no, no, 'tis his spirit's feast; When the evening shadows fall,