Saxon Shilling
The DublinersOriginal | la poesia originale di Kevin T Buggy |
SAXON SHILLING Hark a marshall sound is heard The march of soldiers fife and drumming Eyes are start and hearts are stood For bold recruits the brave are coming Ribbons flaunting feathers gay The sound and sights are surely thrilling Dazzle village youths the day Who're proud to take the Saxon Shilling Peace of spirits will not bow And peace to parish tyrants longer Ye who wear the villian brow And ye who pine and hope asunder Fools without the brave man's face Are slaves and starving who are willing To sell themselves to shame and death Except the fabled Saxon Shilling Go to find the crime and toil That doom to which such guilt is hurried Go to leave on Indian soil your bones To breach accursed and buried Go to crush the just and brave Whose wrongs with wrath the world are filling Go to slay each by the slave or Spurn the blasted Saxon Shilling Irish hearts why should you bleed To swell the tide of British glory Aiding their spots in their needs Whose chains are green so often gory None say those who wish to see The noblest killed the meanest killing And the true hearts of the risen free Will take again the Saxon Shilling Irish youths reserve your strength Until an hour of glorious duty When freedom smile shall cheer at length The land of bravery and beauty Bribes and threats so heed no more Let not but justice make you willing To leave your own dear Ireland shore For those to send as Saxon Shilling | THE SAXON SHILLING Hark! a martial sound is heard— The march of soldiers, fifing, drumming; Eyes are staring, hearts are stirr'd— For bold recruits the brave are coming. Ribands flaunting, feathers gay— The sounds and sighs are surely thrilling, Dazzl'd village youths to-day Will crowd to take the Saxon Shilling. Ye, whose spirits will not bow In peace to parish tyrants longer— Ye, who wear the villain brow, And ye who pine in hopeless hunger— Fools, without the brave man's faith— All slaves and starvlings who are willing To sell yourselves to shame and death— Accept the fatal Saxon Shilling. Ere you from your mountains go To feel the scourge of foreign fever, Swear to serve the faithless foe That lures you from your land for ever! Swear henceforth its tools to be— To slaughter trained by ceaseless drilling— Honour, home, and liberty, Abandon'd for a Saxon Shilling. Go—to find, 'mid crime and toil, The doom to which such guilt is hurried; Go—to leave on Indian soil Your bones to bleach, accurs'd, unburied! Go—to crush the just and brave, Whose wrongs with wrath the world are filling; Go—to slay each brother slave, Or spurn the blood-stained Saxon Shilling! Irish hearts! why should you bleed, To swell the tide of British glory— Aiding despots in their need, Who've changed our green so oft to gory? None, save those who wish to see The noblest killed, the meanest killing, And true hearts severed from the free, Will take again the Saxon Shilling! Irish youths! reserve your strength Until an hour of glorious duty, When Freedom's smile shall cheer at length The land of bravery and beauty. Bribes and threats, oh, heed no more— Let nought but Justice make you willing To leave your own dear Island shore, For those who send the Saxon Shilling. |