BY AVELLINA BALESTRI

Dedicated to the memory of all those who perished in the Rising of the Vendee, putting up a gallant Catholic resistance to the ravages of the French Revolution.

***

We dance to the pipes of another age,

Dance amidst the crops on fire,

While our blood waters the baptismal fonts,

Along with the Pierced Heart, 

Flowing into the Chalice of God.

We dance in defiance of the New Order,

Dance through a winter without Christmas,

Where the weeks are rounded to ten,

And all that does not conform is forbidden.

They call us the unruly ones,

Defying the Lord of Misrule,

And his naked Mistress Reason,

Lying upon the altar of the Lamb.

They have carted away our priests,

And violated our nuns.

They have spat upon the Body, 

And guzzled down the Blood.

They say the world is made anew

Without the Royal Return.

We are naught but peasants of the Loire,

Who follow a fair-faced peddler,

Come out of Anjou with his wagon,

Selling smuggled goods.

But we will believe nothing is new

Without the trumpet at Gabriel’s lips,

The notes ringing wild in our ears.

No, we will believe nothing is new

Until cockle shells make Christmas bells,

And all the seas run dry!

Hear us now!

Until the bells ring on their own,

We will keep faith with the cloaked peddler,

On his knees in the river mud,

Strange hero with the strong arm

And the host upon his tongue. 

See, he has abandoned his cottage,

Where he was kneading bread,

And fed the farmers with his words,

For the King is headless now,

And the peasant waves his pitchfork! 

We will imitate this smuggler turned saint,

Who dons the white panache!

All men are equal now

In death, but not in dignity.

Well, we will prove another thing:

The soul is what makes a man,

The breath of life that blows the pipes,

The billows of battle! 

We bring God and Man together,

Like the fusion of the Incarnation,

Like the reed and drum, playing in accord!

Of high or low degree,

This is our brotherhood:

The baptism of blood,

Beneath the banners of Cathelineau!

We would rather lose our heads

Then spurn the Cross or Crown!

Dieu, le Roi!

Vive, the silver saber!

Vive, the silken sash!

Vive la France,

Eldest Daughter of the Church!

Her son hangs a pistol from his hip

And bears rosary beads across his breast.

The lily-white flag whips in the wind,

A dove in flight, wings outstretched,

Like the Maid of Orlean’s spirit,

Springing from the flames!

We will cast ourselves back into that fire

Before we will worship your harlot!

Yes, we are the unreasonable ones,

Blessing the chrism of anointing

When all the kings are cast down.

We are the ones defying the pagans

When the Temple is defiled.

We are like Maccabees in our ferocity,

With oil to last us through the long night.

We are the ones put to death by the thousands,

Our cause thought to be lost.

But our ghosts live on forever,

Dancing through the charred wheat,

Baptizing the earth with our bleeding feet.

You call our blood manure, 

Nurturing the Tree of Liberty;

We say, we are the rain, 

Nourishing the Tree of Life!

We are the true ennobled ones,

When the nobles are slain in their pride

And the mob tears itself to pieces.

We are the ones staring you down

Even as you shoot us

From the flung-open window.

We are Saint Stephen, buried by stones,

Begging God holds not the sin against you,

And the Holy Innocents,

Slaughtered in our country cradles,

Between Christmas Day and the New Year.

We are the ones you will turn to

When your reason abandons you

In your cities of learning

And you run madly through the streets

Seeking an absolution you cannot obtain,

For God is dead, and you have killed Him.

Then we will arise from the churned earth,

Blest for the harvest,

And will whisper in your ear

The promise of the Passion:

Yes, Yes, Yes,

 God is Dead.

Now wait.

Watch.

Pray. 

Vive!