Eichelhäher
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Die Pogues beschreiben mit "Lorca's Novena" den spanischen Bürgerkrieg:
Ignacio lay dying in the sand
A single red rose clutched in a dying hand
The women wept to see their hero die
And the big black birds gathered in the sky
Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows
Intercede with him tonight
For all of our tomorrows
The years went by and then the killers came
And took the men and marched them up the hill of pain
And Lorca the faggot poet they left till last
Blew his brains out with a pistol up his ****
Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows
Intercede with him tonight
For all of our tomorrows
The killers came to mutilate the dead
But ran away in terror to search the town instead
But Lorca's corpse, as he had prophesied, just walked away
And the only sound was the women in the chapel praying
Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows
Intercede with him tonight
For all of our tomorrows
In "Follow me up to Carlow" (gecovert von jeder Menge vor allem irischer Sänger; ich kenne es von Planxty) geht es um die Schlacht bei Glenmalure 1580.
Lift MacCahir Og your face
Brooding o’er the old disgrace
That black FitzWilliam stormed your place,
Drove you to the Fern
Grey said victory was sure
Soon the firebrand he’d secure;
Until he met at Glenmalure
With Feach MacHugh O’Byrne.
Curse and swear, Lord Kildare,
Feach will do what Feach will dare
Now FitzWilliam, have a care
Fallen is your star low.
Up with halberd, out with sword
On we’ll go for by the lord
Feach MacHugh has given the word,
Follow me up to Carlow.
See the swords of Glen Imayle,
Flashing o’er the English pale
See all the children of the Gael,
Beneath O’Byrne’s banners
Rooster of the fighting stock,
Would you let a Saxon cock
Crow out upon an Irish rock,
Fly up and teach him manners.
From Tassagart to Clonmore,
There flows a stream of Saxon gore
Oh, great is Rory Oge O’More,
At sending loons to Hades.
White is sick and Lane is fled,
Now for black FitzWilliam’s head
We’ll send it over, dripping red,
To Queen Liza and her ladies.
Ignacio lay dying in the sand
A single red rose clutched in a dying hand
The women wept to see their hero die
And the big black birds gathered in the sky
Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows
Intercede with him tonight
For all of our tomorrows
The years went by and then the killers came
And took the men and marched them up the hill of pain
And Lorca the faggot poet they left till last
Blew his brains out with a pistol up his ****
Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows
Intercede with him tonight
For all of our tomorrows
The killers came to mutilate the dead
But ran away in terror to search the town instead
But Lorca's corpse, as he had prophesied, just walked away
And the only sound was the women in the chapel praying
Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows
Intercede with him tonight
For all of our tomorrows
In "Follow me up to Carlow" (gecovert von jeder Menge vor allem irischer Sänger; ich kenne es von Planxty) geht es um die Schlacht bei Glenmalure 1580.
Lift MacCahir Og your face
Brooding o’er the old disgrace
That black FitzWilliam stormed your place,
Drove you to the Fern
Grey said victory was sure
Soon the firebrand he’d secure;
Until he met at Glenmalure
With Feach MacHugh O’Byrne.
Curse and swear, Lord Kildare,
Feach will do what Feach will dare
Now FitzWilliam, have a care
Fallen is your star low.
Up with halberd, out with sword
On we’ll go for by the lord
Feach MacHugh has given the word,
Follow me up to Carlow.
See the swords of Glen Imayle,
Flashing o’er the English pale
See all the children of the Gael,
Beneath O’Byrne’s banners
Rooster of the fighting stock,
Would you let a Saxon cock
Crow out upon an Irish rock,
Fly up and teach him manners.
From Tassagart to Clonmore,
There flows a stream of Saxon gore
Oh, great is Rory Oge O’More,
At sending loons to Hades.
White is sick and Lane is fled,
Now for black FitzWilliam’s head
We’ll send it over, dripping red,
To Queen Liza and her ladies.