Why sweet slumber now disturbing,
Why break ye the midnight peace,
Why the sons of toil perturbing,
Have their hours of rest to cease ?
Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.
The twinkling stars, through night shade peering,
Blink above with heavenly light
On the sleeping world, as a voice calls clear,
In the stilly air of the sable night.
Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.
The collier sleeps, e'en now he's dreaming
Of a pure bright world and loved ones there,
He basks in the rays of fortune beaming
In some far land, full and fair.
Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.
Dream on, thou poor and ill-used collier,
For slaves should aye have visions bright,
There's one above who deems thee holier
Than the wealthiest in his sight.
Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.
Speed, thee, old man, let him slumber
When happy thoughts are in his breast;
Why should the world his peace encumber?
Go, let the weary collier rest.
Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.
Why break ye the midnight peace,
Why the sons of toil perturbing,
Have their hours of rest to cease ?
Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.
The twinkling stars, through night shade peering,
Blink above with heavenly light
On the sleeping world, as a voice calls clear,
In the stilly air of the sable night.
Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.
The collier sleeps, e'en now he's dreaming
Of a pure bright world and loved ones there,
He basks in the rays of fortune beaming
In some far land, full and fair.
Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.
Dream on, thou poor and ill-used collier,
For slaves should aye have visions bright,
There's one above who deems thee holier
Than the wealthiest in his sight.
Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.
Speed, thee, old man, let him slumber
When happy thoughts are in his breast;
Why should the world his peace encumber?
Go, let the weary collier rest.
Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.
inviata da Bernart Bartleby - 8/5/2018 - 14:48
La canzone di Jez Lowe, ispirata alle memorie del padre, minatore per 50 anni…
CURSED BE THE CALLER
Who’s that knocking there, who’s that rapping there?
Who’s that tapping there, can’t you let usbe?
We’ve been to work today, digging our lives away,
Down below the frozen clay, and out beneath the sea.
Oh cursed be the caller with his knock, knock, knock.
Lying there at two o’clock, to hear the caller’s angry knock,
Would give the devil himself a shock as he lay fast asleep.
A working man has not the right to sleephis way all through the night
Clasp your dreams with all your might, ‘cos dreams will never keep,
Oh cursed be the caller with his knock, knock, knock.
The sky is cold, the sky is black, you struggle to get off your back,
The night is always twice as dark, when you have to leave your bed.
A second knock, and then a third, it’s no good saying you never heard.
The gaffer won’t believe a word, it’s enough to wake the dead.
Oh cursed be the caller with his knock, knock, knock.
So curse the caller, curse him well, let him wake the souls in Hell,
He’ll find a place there for himsel’, I’m sure it is his home.
But if he left us sleeping fast, tomorrow’s shift would be our last,
So leave the caller to his task, but curse him all the same.
Oh cursed be the caller with his knock, knock, knock.
Who’s that knocking there, who’s that rapping there?
Who’s that tapping there, can’t you let usbe?
We’ve been to work today, digging our lives away,
Down below the frozen clay, and out beneath the sea.
Oh cursed be the caller with his knock, knock, knock.
Lying there at two o’clock, to hear the caller’s angry knock,
Would give the devil himself a shock as he lay fast asleep.
A working man has not the right to sleephis way all through the night
Clasp your dreams with all your might, ‘cos dreams will never keep,
Oh cursed be the caller with his knock, knock, knock.
The sky is cold, the sky is black, you struggle to get off your back,
The night is always twice as dark, when you have to leave your bed.
A second knock, and then a third, it’s no good saying you never heard.
The gaffer won’t believe a word, it’s enough to wake the dead.
Oh cursed be the caller with his knock, knock, knock.
So curse the caller, curse him well, let him wake the souls in Hell,
He’ll find a place there for himsel’, I’m sure it is his home.
But if he left us sleeping fast, tomorrow’s shift would be our last,
So leave the caller to his task, but curse him all the same.
Oh cursed be the caller with his knock, knock, knock.
B.B. - 8/5/2018 - 14:50
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Parole e musica di Edward "Ned" Corvan (1827-1865), cantautore e musicista di Newcastle Upon Tyne (ma originario di Liverpool)
Ned Corvan scrisse canzoni sulla vita della classe operaia del Tyne e molto spesso offrì le proprie performance per sostenere gli scioperi di pescatori e minatori… Morì a poco più che 30 anni, stroncato dalla tubercolosi, una delle tante malattie che affliggono i poveri…
Il Caller (Caaller, in geordie, dialetto del nord est inglese) era un dipendente della compagnia mineraria che aveva il compito di andare a svegliare uno ad uno i lavoratori prima dell’inizio del turno, ciascuno a seconda del proprio compito, in modo che la “macchina” fosse sempre puntualmente in piena funzione… Inutile dire che la sveglia non avveniva con cappuccino e brioche, ma ad urla e colpi alle porte nel cuore della notte…
Il cantautore Jez Lowe, nel suo disco “The Old Durham Road” del 1983, ha dedicato anche lui una canzone al caller, figura non certo amata dai minatori. S’intitola infatti “Cursed Be The Caller”…