While We Remember,
they still live.
This song, so beautifully done with her usual underappreciated excellence by Kathy Mattea was written after one of the first battles of the Civil War.
It's simple truth, spoken so plainly made it a favorite of both North and South.
Strange how something as cruel and destructive as war has such an ability to unify us in our spirits.
That's something that artists since Homer have tried to comrehend and explain.
The Vacant Chair (We Shall Meet But We Shall Miss Him)
(Words: Henry S. Washburn, Music: George F. Root)
We shall meet, but we shall miss him
There will be one vacant chair
We shall linger to caress him
While we breathe our evening prayer;
When a year ago we gathered
Joy was in his mild blue eye,
But a golden chord is severed
And our hopes in ruin lie.
cho: We shall meet, but we shall miss him
There will be one vacant chair
We shall linger to caress him
While we breathe our evening prayer;
At our fireside, sad and lonely,
Often will the bosom swell,
At remembrance of the story
How our noble Willie fell;
How he strove to bear our banner
Through the thickest of the fight,
And uphold our country's honor
In the strength of manhood's night.
True, they tell us wreaths of glory
Ever more will deck his brow,
But this soothes the anguish only
Sweeping o'er our heartstrings now.
Sleep today, Oh early fallen,
In thy green and narrow bed,
Dirges from the pine and cypress,
Mingle with the tears we shed.
(Words: Henry S. Washburn, Music: George F. Root)
We shall meet, but we shall miss him
There will be one vacant chair
We shall linger to caress him
While we breathe our evening prayer;
When a year ago we gathered
Joy was in his mild blue eye,
But a golden chord is severed
And our hopes in ruin lie.
cho: We shall meet, but we shall miss him
There will be one vacant chair
We shall linger to caress him
While we breathe our evening prayer;
At our fireside, sad and lonely,
Often will the bosom swell,
At remembrance of the story
How our noble Willie fell;
How he strove to bear our banner
Through the thickest of the fight,
And uphold our country's honor
In the strength of manhood's night.
True, they tell us wreaths of glory
Ever more will deck his brow,
But this soothes the anguish only
Sweeping o'er our heartstrings now.
Sleep today, Oh early fallen,
In thy green and narrow bed,
Dirges from the pine and cypress,
Mingle with the tears we shed.
At almost every funeral I have played my small part in honor guard for, I have been struck by the narrowly focused, yet, devastating sacrifice that these two, avoidable, and senseless wars have produced.
Once, while I was piping graveside in Phoenix, a man driving through his normal rush hour commute saw the tell tale signs of the burial that was taking place. Right there, in the middle of the traffic, he stopped his car, got out, stood respectfully with his hand over his heart until we were done. The other people, for the most part, did the same.
If your family, or your circle of friends has a vacant chair this year. My heart is with you.
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