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Rh 

, children, all whose joy it is To serve at Holy Mass, And hear what once in days of faith In England came to pass.

It chanc'd a priest was journeying Through wildering ways of wood; And there, where few came passing by, A lonely chapel stood.

He stay'd his feet, that pilgrim priest, His morning Mass to say, And put the sacred vestments on That near the altar lay.

But who shall serve the Holy Mass, For all is silent there! He kneels him down, and patient waits The peasant's hour of prayer.

When lo! a child of wondrous grace Before the altar steals, And down beside that lowly priest In Infant beauty kneels.

He serves the Mass; his voice is sweet, Like distant music low; With downcast eye, and ready hand, And footfall hush'd and slow. 