/music/ - Music

rockabilly is unambiguously bourgeois

>>4968
who is rockabilly

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

While in the merry month of May, from me home I started
Left the girls of Tuam so sad and broken hearted
Saluted father dear, kissed me darling mother
Drank a pint of beer, me grief and tears to smother

Then off to reap the corn, leave where I was born
Cut a stout black thorn to banish ghosts and goblins
Bought a pair of brogues rattling o'er the bogs
And fright'ning all the dogs on the rocky road to Dublin

One, two, three, four, five,
Hunt the Hare and turn her down the rocky road
All the way to Dublin, whack follol de rah

In Mullingar that night I rested limbs so weary
Started by daylight next morning blithe and early
Took a drop of pure to keep me heart from sinking
That's a Paddy's cure whenever he's on drinking

See the lassies smile, laughing all the while
At me curious style, 'twould set your heart a bubblin'
Asked me was I hired, wages I required
I was almost tired of the rocky road to Dublin

One, two, three, four, five
Hunt the Hare and turn her down the rocky road
All the way to Dublin, whack follol de rah

In Dublin next arrived, I thought it such a pity
To be soon deprived a view of that fine city
So then I took a stroll, all among the quality
Me bundle it was stole, all in a neat locality

Something crossed me mind, when I looked behind
No bundle could I find upon me stick a wobblin'
Inquiring for the rogue, they said me Connaught brogue
Wasn't much in vogue on the rocky road to Dublin

One, two, three, four, five
Hunt the Hare and turn her down the rocky road
All the way to Dublin, whack follol de rah

From there I got away, me spirits never falling
Landed on the quay, just as the ship was sailing
The Captain at me roared, said that no room had he
When I jumped aboard, a cabin found for Paddy

Down among the pigs, played some hearty rigs
Danced some hearty jigs, the water round me bubbling
When off Holyhead, I wished meself was dead
Or better for instead on the rocky road to Dublin

One, two, three, four, five
Hunt the Hare and turn her down the rocky road
All the way to Dublin, whack follol de rah

Well, the boys of Liverpool, when we safely landed
Called meself a fool, I could no longer stand it
Blood began to boil, temper I was losing
Poor old Erin's Isle they began abusing

"Hurrah me soul" says I, me Shillelagh I let fly
Some Galway boys were nigh and saw I was a hobble in
With a load "Hurray" joined in the affray
We quietly cleared the way for the rocky road to Dublin

One, two, three, four, five
Hunt the Hare and turn her down the rocky road
And all the way to Dublin, whack follol de rah

Тачанка
Ты лети с дороги, птица,
Зверь, с дороги уходи!
Видишь, облако клубится,
Кони мчатся впереди!
И с налета, с поворота,
По цепи врагов густой
Застрочит из пулемета
Пулеметчик молодой.

Припев:
Эх, тачанка-ростовчанка,
Наша гордость и краса,
Конармейская тачанка,
Все четыре колеса!

Эх, за Волгой и за Доном
Мчался степью золотой
Загорелый, запыленный
Пулеметчик молодой.
И неслась неудержимо
С гривой рыжего коня
Грива ветра, грива дыма,
Грива бури и огня.

Припев:
Эх, тачанка-киевлянка,
Наша гордость и краса,
Комсомольская тачанка,
Все четыре колеса!

По земле грохочут танки,
Самолеты петли вьют,
О буденновской тачанке
В небе летчики поют.
И врагу поныне снится
Дождь свинцовый и густой
Боевая колесница,
Пулеметчик молодой.

Припев:
Эх, тачанка-полтавчанка,
Наша гордость и краса,
Пулеметная тачанка,
Все четыре колеса!

Fly off the road, bird,1
Beast, get out of the way!
You see a [dust] cloud is swirling,
Horses are rushing ahead!
And with a charge, with a turn,
Over chains of enemies thick
Stutters from the machine-gun
The machine-gunner is young.

Chorus:
Oh, Tachanka from Rostov,
Our pride and beauty,
Red Cavalry Tachanka,
All four wheels!

Oh, over the Volga and over the Don [rivers]
The golden steppes rushed [past]
Bronzed, dusty
The machine-gunner is young.
And rushing unrestrained
With the horses' ginger manes
Manes of wind, manes of smoke
Manes of storm and fire.

Chorus:
Oh, Tachanka of Kiev,
Our pride and beauty,
Tachanka of the Komsomol*
All four wheels!

On the ground the tanks rumble,
Airplanes loop and weave
About the Tachanka of Budennovsk
In the sky, the pilots sing.
And the enemy still is dreaming
The rain is leaden and heavy
Battle chariot,
The machine-gunner is young.

Chorus:
Oh, Tachanka of Poltava,
Our pride and beauty,
Machine-Gun [bearing] Tachanka
All four wheels!