Fr Zed on the BBC Podcast' Trying to Save the Latin Mass'

Fr Zed mentions the podcast, and adds an interesting observation about the song played toward the end of it.

From Fr Z's Blog

In that audio report there is, toward the end, a song by Georges Brassens called “Tempête dans un bénitier”. It is very French – as in “excuse my French” in its… expression of less than high regard for the liturgical changes and those who forced them.

Brassens was a writer for Le Figaro and a prodigious songwriter. He and countless others objected to the changes in the liturgy during the 60’s that were never asked for by the laity and were being shoved down everyone’s throats by their loving shepherds.   This dates from 1976.

Tempête dans un bénitier Le souverain pontife avecque Les évêques, les archevêques Nous font un satané chantier Ils ne savent pas ce qu’ils perdent Tous ces fichus calotins Sans le latin, sans le latin La messe nous emmerde A la fête liturgique Plus de grand’s pompes, soudain Sans le latin, sans le latin Plus de mystère magique Le rite qui nous envoûte S’avère alors anodin Sans le latin, sans le latin Et les fidèl’s s’en foutent O très Sainte Marie mèr’ de Dieu, dites à ces putains De moines qu’ils nous emmerdent Sans le latin Je ne suis pas le seul, morbleu Depuis que ces règles sévissent A ne plus me rendre à l’office Dominical que quand il pleut Il ne savent pas ce qu’ils perdent Tous ces fichus calotins Sans le latin, sans le latin La messe nous emmerde En renonçant à l’occulte Faudra qu’ils fassent tintin Sans le latin, sans le latin Pour le denier du culte A la saison printanière Suisse, bedeau, sacristain Sans le latin, sans le latin F’ront l’églis’ buissonnière O très Sainte Marie mèr’ de Dieu, dites à ces putains De moines qu’ils nous emmerdent Sans le latin. Ces oiseaux sont des enragés Ces corbeaux qui scient, rognent, tranchent La saine et bonne vieille branche De la croix où ils sont perchés Ils ne savent pas ce qu’ils perdent Tous ces fichus calotins Sans le latin, sans le latin La messe nous emmerde Le vin du sacré calice Se change en eau de boudin Sans le latin, sans le latin Et ses vertus faiblissent A Lourdes, Sète ou bien Parme Comme à Quimper Corentin Le presbytère sans le latin A perdu de son charme O très Sainte Marie mèr’ de Dieu, dites à ces putains De moines qu’ils nous emmerdent Sans le latin

Storm in a holy water font The Sovereign Pontiff with that Bishops, archbishops Make us a damn construction site They don’t know what they’re losing All those damn hugs Without Latin, Without Latin Mass pisses us off At the liturgical feast No more big ceremonies, suddenly Without Latin, Without Latin No more magical mystery The rite that captivates us Then turns out to be harmless Without Latin, Without Latin And the faithful don’t care O most Holy Mary mother of God tell these whores Of monks that they piss us off Without latin I’m not the only one, morbleu Since these rules are rife Not to go to the office anymore Sunday only when it rains They don’t know what they’re losing All those damn hugs Without Latin, Without Latin Mass pisses us off By renouncing the occult They will have to do tintin Without Latin, Without Latin For the denarius of worship In the spring season Switzerland, verger, sacristan Without Latin, Without Latin The church will truant O most Holy Mary mother of God tell these whores Of monks that they piss us off Without Latin. These birds are rabid These crows that saw, trim, slice The healthy and good old branch From the cross where they are perched They don’t know what they’re losing All those damn hugs Without Latin, Without Latin Mass pisses us off The wine of the sacred chalice Changes into blood sausage Without Latin, Without Latin And its virtues are weakening In Lourdes, Sète or Parma As in Quimper Corentin The presbytery without Latin Has lost its charm O most Holy Mary mother of God tell these whores Of monks that they piss us off Without latin