I am the Cannon king, behold!
I perish on a throne of gold.
With forest far and turret high,
Renowned and rajah-rich am I.
My father was and his before,
With wealth we owe to war on war;
But let no potentate be proud ...
There are no pockets in a shroud.
By nature I am mild and kind,
To gentleness and ruth inclined;
And though the pheasants over-run
My woods, I will not touch a gun.
Yet while each monster that I forge
Thunders destruction from its gorge.
Death's whisper is, I vow, more loud ...
There are no pockets in a shroud.
My time is short, my ships at sea
Already seem like ghosts to me
My millions mock me, I am poor
As any beggar at my door.
My vast dominion I resign,
Six feet of earth to claim as mine,
Brooding with shoulders bid bitter-bowed
... There are no pockets in a shroud.
Dear God, let me purge pure my heart,
And be of Heaven's hope a part!
Flinging my fortune's foul increase
To fight for pity, love and peace.
Oh that I could with healing fare,
And pledged to poverty and prayer
Cry high above the cringing crowd ...
"Ye fools! Be not by Mammon cowed ...
There are no pockets in a shroud."
I perish on a throne of gold.
With forest far and turret high,
Renowned and rajah-rich am I.
My father was and his before,
With wealth we owe to war on war;
But let no potentate be proud ...
There are no pockets in a shroud.
By nature I am mild and kind,
To gentleness and ruth inclined;
And though the pheasants over-run
My woods, I will not touch a gun.
Yet while each monster that I forge
Thunders destruction from its gorge.
Death's whisper is, I vow, more loud ...
There are no pockets in a shroud.
My time is short, my ships at sea
Already seem like ghosts to me
My millions mock me, I am poor
As any beggar at my door.
My vast dominion I resign,
Six feet of earth to claim as mine,
Brooding with shoulders bid bitter-bowed
... There are no pockets in a shroud.
Dear God, let me purge pure my heart,
And be of Heaven's hope a part!
Flinging my fortune's foul increase
To fight for pity, love and peace.
Oh that I could with healing fare,
And pledged to poverty and prayer
Cry high above the cringing crowd ...
"Ye fools! Be not by Mammon cowed ...
There are no pockets in a shroud."
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Note for non-Italian users: Sorry, though the interface of this website is translated into English, most commentaries and biographies are in Italian and/or in other languages like French, German, Spanish, Russian etc.
Recorded at Vanguard Studios, 71 West 23rd Street, New York City, 1971
Music composed by Country Joe McDonald,
based on poems written by Robert Service, used with permisssion
PART ONE
Foreword - The Call (War! War! War!) - Young Fellow, My Lad - The Man from Athabasca
PART TWO
The Munition Maker - The Twins - Jean Desprez
PART THREE
War Widow - The March of the Dead