Booming drums and blaring trumpets,
Ringing bells on every tower,
Sacred songs each throat is chanting
Till with all this sound and bustle,
Seems to quake the very island.
Constantly the throng is growing
While a glorious procession
'cross the bridge is slowly winding.
Booming drums and blaring trumpets,
All abounds in festive glory,
Yes, the very sun from heaven
Pours a stream of gold abundance
On the crosiers, ensigns, crosses,
On the mitres and chasubles.
On each side of this procession
Rows of bald-pate monks are flanking.
In the center, walking slowly,
Prettiest of city's daughters
Bear a picture of Madonna.
Through the incense' smoky columns
Barely penetrates the sunshine,
Barely o'er the clanging church bells
Heard monks' psalms and songs of people.
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