The merry brown hares came leaping
Over the crest of the hill,
Where the clover and corn lay sleeping
Under the moonlight still.
Leaping late and early,
Till under their bite and their tread
The swedes and the wheat and the barley
Lay cankered and trampled and dead.
A poacher's widow sat sighing
On the side of the white chalk bank,
Where under the gloomy fir-woods
One spot in the ley throve rank.
She watched a long tuft of clover,
Where rabbit or hare never ran;
For its black sour haulm covered over
The blood of a murdered man.
She thought of the dark plantation,
And the hares, and her husband's blood,
And the voice of her indignation
Rose up to the throne of God.
'I am long past wailing and whining—
I have wept too much in my life:
I've had twenty years of pining
As an English labourer's wife.
'A labourer in Christian England,
Where they cant of a Saviour's name,
And yet waste men's lives like the vermin's
For a few more brace of game.
'There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire,
There's blood on your pointer's feet;
There's blood on the game you sell, squire,
And there's blood on the game you eat.
'You have sold the labouring-man, squire,
Body and soul to shame,
To pay for your seat in the House, squire,
And to pay for the feed of your game.
'You made him a poacher yourself, squire,
When you'd give neither work nor meat,
And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden
At our starving children's feet;
'When, packed in one reeking chamber,
Man, maid, mother, and little ones lay;
While the rain pattered in on the rotting bride-bed,
And the walls let in the day.
'When we lay in the burning fever
On the mud of the cold clay floor,
Till you parted us all for three months, squire,
At the dreary workhouse door.
'We quarrelled like brutes, and who wonders?
What self-respect could we keep,
Worse housed than your hacks and your pointers,
Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep?
'Our daughters with base-born babies
Have wandered away in their shame,
If your misses had slept, squire, where they did,
Your misses might do the same.
'Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking
With handfuls of coals and rice,
Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting
A little below cost price?
'You may tire of the jail and the workhouse,
And take to allotments and schools,
But you've run up a debt that will never
Be paid us by penny-club rules.
'In the season of shame and sadness,
In the dark and dreary day,
When scrofula, gout, and madness
Are eating your race away;
'When to kennels and liveried varlets
You have cast your daughter's bread,
And, worn out with liquor and harlots,
Your heir at your feet lies dead;
'When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed rector,
Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave,
You will find in your God the protector
Of the freeman you fancied your slave.'
She looked at the tuft of clover,
And wept till her heart grew light;
And at last, when her passion was over,
Went wandering into the night.
But the merry brown hares came leaping
Over the uplands still,
Where the clover and corn lay sleeping
On the side of the white chalk hill.
Over the crest of the hill,
Where the clover and corn lay sleeping
Under the moonlight still.
Leaping late and early,
Till under their bite and their tread
The swedes and the wheat and the barley
Lay cankered and trampled and dead.
A poacher's widow sat sighing
On the side of the white chalk bank,
Where under the gloomy fir-woods
One spot in the ley throve rank.
She watched a long tuft of clover,
Where rabbit or hare never ran;
For its black sour haulm covered over
The blood of a murdered man.
She thought of the dark plantation,
And the hares, and her husband's blood,
And the voice of her indignation
Rose up to the throne of God.
'I am long past wailing and whining—
I have wept too much in my life:
I've had twenty years of pining
As an English labourer's wife.
'A labourer in Christian England,
Where they cant of a Saviour's name,
And yet waste men's lives like the vermin's
For a few more brace of game.
'There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire,
There's blood on your pointer's feet;
There's blood on the game you sell, squire,
And there's blood on the game you eat.
'You have sold the labouring-man, squire,
Body and soul to shame,
To pay for your seat in the House, squire,
And to pay for the feed of your game.
'You made him a poacher yourself, squire,
When you'd give neither work nor meat,
And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden
At our starving children's feet;
'When, packed in one reeking chamber,
Man, maid, mother, and little ones lay;
While the rain pattered in on the rotting bride-bed,
And the walls let in the day.
'When we lay in the burning fever
On the mud of the cold clay floor,
Till you parted us all for three months, squire,
At the dreary workhouse door.
'We quarrelled like brutes, and who wonders?
What self-respect could we keep,
Worse housed than your hacks and your pointers,
Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep?
'Our daughters with base-born babies
Have wandered away in their shame,
If your misses had slept, squire, where they did,
Your misses might do the same.
'Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking
With handfuls of coals and rice,
Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting
A little below cost price?
'You may tire of the jail and the workhouse,
And take to allotments and schools,
But you've run up a debt that will never
Be paid us by penny-club rules.
'In the season of shame and sadness,
In the dark and dreary day,
When scrofula, gout, and madness
Are eating your race away;
'When to kennels and liveried varlets
You have cast your daughter's bread,
And, worn out with liquor and harlots,
Your heir at your feet lies dead;
'When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed rector,
Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave,
You will find in your God the protector
Of the freeman you fancied your slave.'
She looked at the tuft of clover,
And wept till her heart grew light;
And at last, when her passion was over,
Went wandering into the night.
But the merry brown hares came leaping
Over the uplands still,
Where the clover and corn lay sleeping
On the side of the white chalk hill.
envoyé par DoNQuijote82 - 20/3/2012 - 09:54
Langue: anglais
la versione dei Chumbawamba da English Rebel songs 1381-1984
The merry brown hares came a-leaping
Over the crest of the hill
Where the clover and corn lay a-sleeping
Under the moonlight so still
Leaping so late and so early
‘Till under their bite and their tread
The swedes and the wheat and the barley
Lay cankered and trampled and dead
A poacher's poor widow sat sighing
On the side of the moss-patterned bank
Where under the gloom of the fir-woods
One acre of ground laying rank
She watched over barely grown clover
Where rabbit or hare never ran
For the ground that it all covered over
Hid the blood of a good murdered man
She thought of the shaded plantation
And the hares and her husband's own blood
And the voice of her own indignation
Rose up to the throne of her God
There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, Squire
There's blood on your pointer's cold feet
There's blood on the game that you sell Squire
And there's blood on the game that you eat
You have sold out the labouring man, Squire
Both body and soul for to shame
To pay for your seat in the House, Squire
And to pay for the feed of your game
You made him a poacher yourself, Squire
When you'd give not the work nor the meat
And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden
At our starving poor little one's feet
When packed into one tiny chamber
Man, mother and little ones lay
While the rain pattered in on our bride bed
And the walls barely held out the day
When we lay in the heat of the fever
On the mud and the clay of the floor
‘Till you parted us all for three months, Squire
And we knocked at the working house door
So to kennels and liveried varlets
Where you starved your own daughter of bread
And worn out with liquor and harlots
See your heirs at your feet lying dead
When you follow them into your heaven
And your soul rots asleep in the grave
Then Squire, you will not be forgiven
By the free men you took as your slaves
Over the crest of the hill
Where the clover and corn lay a-sleeping
Under the moonlight so still
Leaping so late and so early
‘Till under their bite and their tread
The swedes and the wheat and the barley
Lay cankered and trampled and dead
A poacher's poor widow sat sighing
On the side of the moss-patterned bank
Where under the gloom of the fir-woods
One acre of ground laying rank
She watched over barely grown clover
Where rabbit or hare never ran
For the ground that it all covered over
Hid the blood of a good murdered man
She thought of the shaded plantation
And the hares and her husband's own blood
And the voice of her own indignation
Rose up to the throne of her God
There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, Squire
There's blood on your pointer's cold feet
There's blood on the game that you sell Squire
And there's blood on the game that you eat
You have sold out the labouring man, Squire
Both body and soul for to shame
To pay for your seat in the House, Squire
And to pay for the feed of your game
You made him a poacher yourself, Squire
When you'd give not the work nor the meat
And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden
At our starving poor little one's feet
When packed into one tiny chamber
Man, mother and little ones lay
While the rain pattered in on our bride bed
And the walls barely held out the day
When we lay in the heat of the fever
On the mud and the clay of the floor
‘Till you parted us all for three months, Squire
And we knocked at the working house door
So to kennels and liveried varlets
Where you starved your own daughter of bread
And worn out with liquor and harlots
See your heirs at your feet lying dead
When you follow them into your heaven
And your soul rots asleep in the grave
Then Squire, you will not be forgiven
By the free men you took as your slaves
envoyé par DonQuijote82 - 20/3/2012 - 09:59
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Interpretata dai Chumbawamba
Performed by Chumbawamba
[1989]
Album: "English Rebel Songs 1381-1914"
The Cutty Wren - The Diggers' Song [Levellers and Diggers] - The Colliers March - The Triumph Of General Ludd - Chartists Anthem - Song on the Times - Smashing Of The Van - The World Turned Upside Down [Digger's Song] - Poverty Knock - Idris Strike Song - Hanging On The Old Barbed Wire
Nel 2003 i Chumbawamba hanno ripubblicato l'album aggiungendo alcune canzoni con il titolo ''English Rebel Songs 1381–1984'':
The Bad Squires - Coal Not Dole