’Twas on a holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean
The children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green:
Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow
Till into the high dome of Paul’s they like Thames waters flow

O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town!
Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs
Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among:
Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door