I don't want to be a soldier
I don't want to go to war.
I would rather hang around
Piccadilly's underground
And live upon the earnings of a high born lady.
I don't want a bullet up me arse hole,
Nor want me bloomin' buttocks shot away.
No, I'd rather stay in England,
jolly, jolly England,
And fornicate me bloomin' life away,
Gor blimey!
I don't want to go to war.
I would rather hang around
Piccadilly's underground
And live upon the earnings of a high born lady.
I don't want a bullet up me arse hole,
Nor want me bloomin' buttocks shot away.
No, I'd rather stay in England,
jolly, jolly England,
And fornicate me bloomin' life away,
Gor blimey!
Langue: anglais
Una versione leggermente diversa tratta da
Questo blog
Questo blog
I don't want to be a soldier,
I don't want to go to war.
I'd sooner hang around
Piccadilly underground,
Living on the earnings of a high-born lady.
Don't want a bullet up me arsehole,
Don't want me ballocks shot away.
I'd rather be in England,
In merry, merry England,
And fornicate me fucking life away
I don't want to go to war.
I'd sooner hang around
Piccadilly underground,
Living on the earnings of a high-born lady.
Don't want a bullet up me arsehole,
Don't want me ballocks shot away.
I'd rather be in England,
In merry, merry England,
And fornicate me fucking life away
envoyé par Riccado Venturi - 7/8/2005 - 16:39
Langue: italien
Una versione italiana che può servire ad entrambi le versioni inglesi:
NON VOGLIO FARE IL SOLDATO
Non voglio fare il soldato,
non voglio andare alla guerra.
Piuttosto me ne starei
a girellare attorno a Piccadilly
mantenuto da una signora di nobili natali.
Non voglio una pallottola nel buco del culo,
non voglio che mi facciano saltar le palle.
Piuttosto me ne starei in Inghilterra,
nella bella, nella bella Inghilterra
e passando 'sta vita di merda a scopare.
Non voglio fare il soldato,
non voglio andare alla guerra.
Piuttosto me ne starei
a girellare attorno a Piccadilly
mantenuto da una signora di nobili natali.
Non voglio una pallottola nel buco del culo,
non voglio che mi facciano saltar le palle.
Piuttosto me ne starei in Inghilterra,
nella bella, nella bella Inghilterra
e passando 'sta vita di merda a scopare.
Langue: anglais
Brano del musical teatrale "Oh, What a Lovely War!" di Joan Littlewood and her Theatre Workshop.
[1963]
[1963]
I don't want to be a soldier,
I don't want to go to war,
I'd rather stay at home,
Around the streets to roam,
And live on the earnings of a lady typist.
I don't want a bayonet in my belly,
I don't want my bollocks shot away,
I'd rather stay in England,
In merry, merry England,
And fornicate my bleeding life away.
I don't want to go to war,
I'd rather stay at home,
Around the streets to roam,
And live on the earnings of a lady typist.
I don't want a bayonet in my belly,
I don't want my bollocks shot away,
I'd rather stay in England,
In merry, merry England,
And fornicate my bleeding life away.
envoyé par Alessandro - 30/1/2009 - 08:56
Langue: anglais
Una versione risalente alle guerre napoleoniche, attribuita ai soldati di fanteria di un reggimento al comando del Duca di Wellington durante la guerra tra la Francia, da una parte, e gli alleati Spagna, Regno Unito e Portogallo, dall'altra, per il controllo della penisola iberica (1807-1814).
Testo trovato sull'articolo di Les Cleveland "Soldiers' Songs: The Folklore of the Powerless" pubblicato sulla rivista "New York Folklore" n.11 nel 1985.
Testo trovato sull'articolo di Les Cleveland "Soldiers' Songs: The Folklore of the Powerless" pubblicato sulla rivista "New York Folklore" n.11 nel 1985.
I DON'T WANT TO BE A SOLDIER
I don't want the Sergeant's shilling, (1)
I don't want to be shot down;
I'm really much more willing
To make myself a killing,
Living off the pickings of the Ladies of the Town;
Don't want a bullet up my bumhole,
Don't want my cobblers minced with ball; (2)
For if I have to lose 'em
Then let it be with Susan
Or Meg or Peg or any whore at all,
Gorblimey!
On Monday I touched her on the ankle,
On Tuesday I touched her on the knee;
On Wednesday such caresses
As I got inside her dresses,
On Thursday she was moaning sweetly;
On Friday I had my fingers in it,
On Saturday she gave my balls a wrench;
And on Sunday after supper,
I had the fucker up her,
And now she's got me up before the Bench,
Gorblimey!
I don't want the Sergeant's shilling, (1)
I don't want to be shot down;
I'm really much more willing
To make myself a killing,
Living off the pickings of the Ladies of the Town;
Don't want a bullet up my bumhole,
Don't want my cobblers minced with ball; (2)
For if I have to lose 'em
Then let it be with Susan
Or Meg or Peg or any whore at all,
Gorblimey!
On Monday I touched her on the ankle,
On Tuesday I touched her on the knee;
On Wednesday such caresses
As I got inside her dresses,
On Thursday she was moaning sweetly;
On Friday I had my fingers in it,
On Saturday she gave my balls a wrench;
And on Sunday after supper,
I had the fucker up her,
And now she's got me up before the Bench,
Gorblimey!
Note:
(1) "Sergeant's shilling": si riferisce ai reclutatori dell'esercito, alle The Press Gang che per qualche scellino, una sbronza e a suon di botte procuravano gli uomini da mandare alla guerra di turno...
(2) Letteralmente: "Non voglio trovarmi con le palle spappolate da un colpo di fucile o di cannone".
(1) "Sergeant's shilling": si riferisce ai reclutatori dell'esercito, alle The Press Gang che per qualche scellino, una sbronza e a suon di botte procuravano gli uomini da mandare alla guerra di turno...
(2) Letteralmente: "Non voglio trovarmi con le palle spappolate da un colpo di fucile o di cannone".
envoyé par Alessandro - 25/11/2009 - 12:58
Langue: anglais
Scopro su Music Hall Lyrics che le tante versioni, più o meno complete, di questa canzone sono tutte parodie, più o meno spinte, della recruiting song australiana “I'll Make A Man Of You” di Arthur Wimperis ed Herman Finck, portata al successo all’inizio della guerra (1914) da diverse cantanti “leggere”, come Gwendoline Brogden, Clara Beck e Minnie Love.
L’imprecazione “cor blimey” che conclude ogni strofa è in cockney, dialetto della classe proletaria londinese, e sta per “May God blind me!”, che sarebbe come il nostro “Che Dio mi fulmini!” o il romanesco “Potessero cecamme!”
A dire il vero anche la canzone originale, essendo incentrata sul bordello - elemento immancabile specie in tempo di guerra - meriterebbe l’inserimento come CCG, tanto più che fa parte della colonna sonora di “Oh, What a Lovely War!”, lo spettacolo musicale antimilitarista creato da Joan Littlewood ed il suo Theatre Workshop nel 1963, di cui molti brani sono già accolti sulle CCG/AWS.
L’imprecazione “cor blimey” che conclude ogni strofa è in cockney, dialetto della classe proletaria londinese, e sta per “May God blind me!”, che sarebbe come il nostro “Che Dio mi fulmini!” o il romanesco “Potessero cecamme!”
A dire il vero anche la canzone originale, essendo incentrata sul bordello - elemento immancabile specie in tempo di guerra - meriterebbe l’inserimento come CCG, tanto più che fa parte della colonna sonora di “Oh, What a Lovely War!”, lo spettacolo musicale antimilitarista creato da Joan Littlewood ed il suo Theatre Workshop nel 1963, di cui molti brani sono già accolti sulle CCG/AWS.
I DON’T WANT TO BE A SOLDIER
I don't want to be a soldier
I don't wanna go to war
I'd rather stay at home, around the streets to roam
And live on the earnings of a lady typist
I don't want a bayonet in my belly
Don't want my buttocks shot away
I'd rather stay in England
In merry, merry England
And bore the Captain's ruddy life away, cor blimey!
On Monday I touched on the ankle,
Tuesday I touched her on the knee....
Wednesday I had success,
She lifted up her dress,
Thursday, she touched me cor blimey,
Friday I had me hand upon it
Saturday she gave me balls a tweak,
And on Sunday after supper,
I rammed the fucker up her,
And now I'm paying thirty bob a week, cor blimey!
I don't want to joint the army,
I don't want to go to war...
I'd rather hang around Piccadilly Underground,
Living off the earnings of a high-born lady,
I don't want a bayonet up me arsole,
I don't want me bollocks shot away,
No! I'd rather live in England,
In merrie merrie England,
And fornicate me fucking life away, cor blimey!
I don't want to be a soldier
I don't wanna go to war
I'd rather stay at home, around the streets to roam
And live on the earnings of a lady typist
I don't want a bayonet in my belly
Don't want my buttocks shot away
I'd rather stay in England
In merry, merry England
And bore the Captain's ruddy life away, cor blimey!
On Monday I touched on the ankle,
Tuesday I touched her on the knee....
Wednesday I had success,
She lifted up her dress,
Thursday, she touched me cor blimey,
Friday I had me hand upon it
Saturday she gave me balls a tweak,
And on Sunday after supper,
I rammed the fucker up her,
And now I'm paying thirty bob a week, cor blimey!
I don't want to joint the army,
I don't want to go to war...
I'd rather hang around Piccadilly Underground,
Living off the earnings of a high-born lady,
I don't want a bayonet up me arsole,
I don't want me bollocks shot away,
No! I'd rather live in England,
In merrie merrie England,
And fornicate me fucking life away, cor blimey!
envoyé par Bernart Bartleby - 4/1/2016 - 05:03
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The Socialist Songbook
Così cantavano i richiamati inglesi alla "Grande guerra"...mentre i tromboni della guerra parlavano di "ardore patriottico", magari.