Who at night the
convent walls
Passes, sees its bright windows
Shinning, for they're holding there
A gathering of shadows.
They're dead Ursulines joining
In a gloomy procession,
From the linen hoods are peeping
Faces of still young complexion.
They bear candles in their hands,
Casting a dreadful, bloodred glow;
The crossway echoes strangely
When they wail and whisper low.
The train moves on to the church;
Sitting on benches of wood,
By the quire, they start singing
In a sad and serious mood.
It sounds like pious litanies,
But their words are wild and shock;
They are poor and lost souls who,
At the heavenly gates, knock.
The brides of Christ we used to be,
But we could not resist long
Earthly pleasures, we gave Cĉsar
Things that to dear God belong.
Charming is the uniform and
A smooth shining moustache; In fact
It's Cĉsar golden epaulettes
Which, above all things, attract.
The brow, which once carried thorns,
Was, by our ill behaviour,
Adorned by a stag's antler:
We have betrayed our Saviour.
Jesus, the merciful, softly
Wept over our transgression,
And said: " May your souls be cursed
In eternal damnation! "
Rising from our graves at night,
As shadows, we wander weary
In these walls and repent.
Miserere! Miserere!
Ah, all is well in the grave!
Yet, it would be far more merry
In the cosy realm of Heaven.
Miserere! Miserere!
Sweet Jesus, forgive at last
Our sins, though bad and dreary;
Let us feel the warmth of Heaven.
Miserere! Miserere!
Thus the nuns keep on singing;
While a dead clerk begins to play
On the organ. Shadow hands,
Over the keys wildly stray.