An old choirmaster dies, and a young tenor chorister assumes they'll be able to sing him on his way, but the vicar says no, it's too cold, get it over as quickly as possible, bury him without ceremony..
"But 'twas said that, when
At the dead of next night
The vicar looked out,
There struck on his ken
Thronged roundabout,
Where the frost was graying
The headstoned grass,
A band all in white
Like the saints in church-glass,
Singing and playing
The ancient stave
By the choirmaster's grave.
Such the tenor man told
When he had grown old."
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