Title: American Old Time Song Lyrics
Subject: Traditional & Folk Music
Author: www.traditionalmusic.co.uk
Keywords: Old time music, American, oldtimey, bluegrass

The Benediction - song lyrics 
American Old-time song lyrics from www.traditionalmusic.co.uk 
THE BENEDICTION. By Francois Coppee. 
It was in eighteen hundred-yes- and nine, That we took Sarngossa, What a day Of untold horrors! I was sergeant then. The city carried, we laid siege to houses, All shut up close, and with a treacherous look, Raining down shots upon us from the windows. 'Tis the priest's doing! "was the word passed 'round; So that, although since daybreak under arms-Our eyes with powder smarting, and our months Bitter with kissing cartridge-ends-piff! paff! Rattled the musketry with ready aim. If shovel, hat and long black coat were seen Flying in the distance. Up a narrow street My company worked on. I kept an eye On every house-top, rigid and left, and saw From many a roof flames suddenly burst forth, Coloring the sky as from the chimney-tops Among the forges. Low our fellows stooped, Entering the low-pitched dens. When they came out, With bayonets dripping red, their bloody fingers Signed crosses on the wall; for we were bound, In such a dangerous defile, not to leave Foes lurking in our rear, There was no drum-beat, No ordered march. Our officers looked grave; The rank and file uneasy, jogging elbows As do recruits when flinching. All at once, Rounding a corner, we are hailed in French With cries for help. At double-quick we join Our hard-pressed comrades. They were grenadiers, A gallant company, but beaten back Inglorious from the raised and flag-paved square, Fronting a convent. Twenty stalwart monks Defended it-black demons with shaved crowns, The cross in white embroidered on their frocks, Barefoot, their sleeves tucked up, their only weapons Enormous crucifixes, so well brandished Our men went down before them. By platoons Firing we swept the place-in fact, we slaughtered This terrible group of heroes, no more soul Being in us than in executioners. 
The foul deed done-deliberately done-And the thick smoke rolling away, we noted Under the huddled masses of the dead, Rivulets of blood run trickling down the steps; While in the background solemnly the church Loomed up, its doors wide open. We went in. It was a desert. Lighted tapers starred The inner gloom with points of gold. The incense Gave out its perfume. At the upper end. Turned to the altar, as though unconcerned In the fierce battle that had raged, a priest. White-haired and tall of stature, to a close Was bringing tranquilly the mass. So stamped Upon my memory is that thrilling scene, That, as I speak, it comes before me now-The convent built in old time by the Moors; The huge brown corpses of the monks; the sun Making the red blood on the pavement steam; And there, framed in by the low porch, the priest; And there the altar brilliant as a shrine; And here ourselves, all halting, hesitating, Almost afraid. 
I, certes, in those days Was a confirmed blasphemer. 'Tis on record That once, by way of sacrilegious joke, A chapel being sacked, I lit my pipe At a wax candle burning on the altar. This time, however, I was awed-so blanched Was that old man! 
"Shoot him!"our captain cried. Not a soul budged. The priest beyond all doubt Heard; but, as though he heard not, turning 'round, He faced us with the elevated Host. Having that period of the service reached When on the faithful benediction falls. His lifted arms seemed as the spread of wings; And as he raised the pvx, and in the air With it described the Cross, each man of us Fell back, aware the priest no more was trembling Than if before him the devout were ranged. But when, intoned with clear and mellow voice, The words came to us-
Vos benedicat *Deus Omnipotens! The captain's order Rang out again and sharply, "Shoot him down, Or I shall swear!" Then one of ours, a dastard, Leveled his gun and fired. Upstanding still, The priest changed color, though with steadfast look Set upwards, and indomitably stern. Pater et Filius! Came the words. What frenzy, What maddening thirst for blood, sent from our ranks Another shot, I know not; but 'twas done. 
The monk, with one hand on the altar's ledge, Held himself up; and strenuous to complete His benediction, in the other raised The consecrated Host. For the third time Tracing in air the symbol of forgiveness, 
With eyes closed, and In tones exceeding low, But in the general hush distinctly heard, Et Sanctus Spiritus! He said; and, ending His service, fell down dead. The golden pyx Rolled bounding on the floor. Then, as we stood. Even the old troopers, with our muskets grounded, And choking horror in our hearts, at sight Of such a ehameless murder and at sight Of such a martyr, with a chuckling laugh, Amen! Drawled out a drummer boy.