The bells of St. Michael's are rolling and ringing
The winds are wild howling and the gravestones are singing
The panes are shifting and the bricks they are groaning
The yard is all barren; the naked trees groaning
Within the great doors, the pews all in rows
Alone stands Maria, in hand one rose
Silent and still, yet much she can see
She whispers and; "How can this be?"
The catwalks up high, creaking and saddened
The face of the Earl by the day maddened
The murals and martyrs silent with rage
The pulpit for old dead spirits a stage
The bells are nigh lost, tho' the grass is still green
Pray be remembered, and bless our great queen
Think of the winter in the midst of the summers
And in winter regale the warmth of your mothers
"St. Michael's, St. Michael's," says the wistful son's cry
And the clear rising voice, "I shall not stand by"
Yet stands it there still, all but forgotten
Of ages and kings long past begotten
There is much to hold dear, and yet more to cherish
Lest the most aged of treasures be destined to perish
Of torches and sentinels, they are much overstated
It is the sure and the brave that are the true fated
Little can save you, if saved you would be
But a life devout; an ideal to hold, and a dream to be free