When I was young the war was raging,
I heard the politicians' prattle,
I ignored my father's warning,
Longed to join the glorious battle.
War was grand and I was young then,
War was a triumphant story,
Through the cheering towns and cities,
We, like victors, marched in glory.
Oh, to hear the drums a-beating,
Overhead the banners flying.
Oh, to hear the cannon roaring
And to see the foemen dying.
Kill for peace and kill for freedom,
Kill because that's what you're paid for,
Kill if winning, kill if losing,
Killing's what a man is made for.
Slowly pass the years of fighting,
More and more young men they're sending
To lie murdered in the sunlight.
On and on it's never ending.
Now I hear the drums a-beating,
In the mud the banners lying,
Now I hear the cannon roaring,
All around my friends are dying.
Through the cold and heat we battled,
Victory was all we sighed for.
Now at last the war is over
Where's the peace we fought and died for.
War is like some mighty flower,
Watered by a mother's crying,
Coloured with the blood of brothers,
Scented by the smell of dying.
I heard the politicians' prattle,
I ignored my father's warning,
Longed to join the glorious battle.
War was grand and I was young then,
War was a triumphant story,
Through the cheering towns and cities,
We, like victors, marched in glory.
Oh, to hear the drums a-beating,
Overhead the banners flying.
Oh, to hear the cannon roaring
And to see the foemen dying.
Kill for peace and kill for freedom,
Kill because that's what you're paid for,
Kill if winning, kill if losing,
Killing's what a man is made for.
Slowly pass the years of fighting,
More and more young men they're sending
To lie murdered in the sunlight.
On and on it's never ending.
Now I hear the drums a-beating,
In the mud the banners lying,
Now I hear the cannon roaring,
All around my friends are dying.
Through the cold and heat we battled,
Victory was all we sighed for.
Now at last the war is over
Where's the peace we fought and died for.
War is like some mighty flower,
Watered by a mother's crying,
Coloured with the blood of brothers,
Scented by the smell of dying.
Contributed by Bernart Bartleby - 2018/3/29 - 08:34
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Parole di Colin Wilkie
Su di una melodia tradizionale di origine incerta
Nel disco “We Travel The Road”, con Shirley Hart
Poi nel disco collettivo “Songs For Peace” del 1983.
Testo trovato su MySongBook.de