The Band Played Waltzing Matilda
Eric Bogle| Original | La versione catalana del gruppo valenciano Gent del Desert |
| THE BAND PLAYED WALTZING MATILDA Now when I was a young man I carried me pack And I lived the free life of the rover. From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback, Well, I waltzed my Matilda all over. Then in 1915, my country said, "Son, It's time you stop ramblin', there's work to be done." So they gave me a tin hat, and they gave me a gun, And they marched me away to the war. And the band played "Waltzing Matilda," As the ship pulled away from the quay, And amidst all the cheers, the flag waving, and tears, We sailed off for Gallipoli. And how well I remember that terrible day, How our blood stained the sand and the water; And of how in that hell that they call Suvla Bay We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter. Johnny Turk, he was waitin', he primed himself well; He showered us with bullets, and he rained us with shell -- And in five minutes flat, he'd blown us all to hell, Nearly blew us right back to Australia. But the band played "Waltzing Matilda," When we stopped to bury our slain, Well, we buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs, Then we started all over again. And those that were left, well, we tried to survive In that mad world of blood, death and fire. And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive Though around me the corpses piled higher. Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head, And when I woke up in me hospital bed And saw what it had done, well, I wished I was dead -- Never knew there was worse things than dying. For I'll go no more "Waltzing Matilda," All around the green bush far and free -- To hump tents and pegs, a man needs both legs, No more "Waltzing Matilda" for me. So they gathered the crippled, the wounded, the maimed, And they shipped us back home to Australia. The armless, the legless, the blind, the insane, Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla. And as our ship sailed into Circular Quay, I looked at the place where me legs used to be, And thanked Christ there was nobody waiting for me, To grieve, to mourn and to pity. But the band played "Waltzing Matilda," As they carried us down the gangway, But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared, Then they turned all their faces away. And so now every April, I sit on my porch And I watch the parade pass before me. And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march, Reviving old dreams of past glory, And the old men march slowly, all bones stiff and sore, They're tired old heroes from a forgotten war And the young people ask "What are they marching for?" And I ask meself the same question. But the band plays "Waltzing Matilda," And the old men still answer the call, But as year follows year, more old men disappear Someday, no one will march there at all. Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda. Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me? And their ghosts may be heard as they march by the billabong, Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me? | I LA BANDA TOCÀ EL VALS DE MATILDA Quan jo era jove, un fardell vaig portar i roder en ma terra vaig viure. De les verdes muntanyes a l'immens pedregar, ballí el vals de Matilda ben lliure. Però en mil nou-cents quinze em van dir: "Xaval, la pàtria et reclama, hi ha una tasca que cal". Em donaren un casc, un fusell i un punyal i em dugueren molt lluny a la guerra. I la banda tocà el vals de Matilda quan els xics embarcàvem al port. Entre vítols i crits i missatges de sort, vam salpar cap a Gal·lípoli. Me'n recorde molt bé del dia del terror quan la sang tenyí l'aigua i l'arena. La badia de Suvla fou l'escorxador; a l'infern, no s'hi troba més pena. Joan el Turc no era imbècil, s'havia estat preparant, a aquella ratera ens anà arrossegant. Una pluja de bales quasi ens tornà volant en poc més d'uns minuts a Austràlia. I la banda tocà el vals de Matilda quan paràrem a enterrar tots els morts, els nostres morts, i els turcs, els seus morts. I el combat començà novament. En un món dement de mort, sang i foc, alguns com jo sobrevivien; set llargues setmanes al maleït lloc on les piles de cadàvers creixien. I, de colp, un canó m'encertà a l'engonal. I quan vaig despertar en un llit d'hospital vaig conéixer, en veure quin era el meu mal que hi ha coses pitjors que morir-se. Ja no ballaré el vals de Matilda entre els arbres, tan verds, tan llunyans. Per trescar i acampar no tinc prou amb les mans. S'ha acabat el vals per a mi. Ajuntaren després tots els mutilats i ens van repatriar a Austràlia. Els cegos, els coixos, mancs i trastornats, els herois orgullosos de Suvla. Quan el nostre vaixell entrà al Moll Circular mirí on les meues cames havien d'estar. No tenia ningú que em vinguera a esperar i això al cel li ho vaig agrair. I la banda tocà el vals de Matilda i atracàrem i baixàrem pel pont. Però ningú va brindar. Ens miraven de front i giraven els ulls lentament. I ara, cada abril, me n'isc al portó i veig passar la desfilada. Veig els meus camarades marxant al mateix so revivint una glòria passada. Els vells van a espai, torts i encarcarats; d'una guerra oblidada, els herois oblidats. La xicalla demana: "Per què van desfilant?", i això em pregunte jo a mi mateix. I la banda toca el vals de Matilda i n'hi ha qui a la crida respon, però any rere any, qualques menys en són. Algun dia, no hi vindrà ningú. Vals de Matilda, vals de Matilda... Qui ballarà el vals junt a mi? |
