Down by yon green bushes near Calder's clear stream
Where me and my Annie so often have been
When the hours flew past us, right happy were we,
It was little she thought that a soldier I'd be
But it's farewell to Annie and I must away
For the King he needs soldiers and I must obey.
But if providence proves kind, love, until I return
I will wed with dear Annie near Calder's clear burn
On the 14th of August our regiment was lost
And a ball from the enemy our lines came across
It struck me in the temple and the blood trickled down
I reeled and I staggered and I fell to the ground.
"Come here," says our captain, "come here with good speed
For I fear by this bullet, young Dinsmore, lies dead."
Two men with a stretcher did quickly prepare,
And they carried me away to a hospital there.
Cold water and brandy they poured out so free,
They turned me all over my wounds for to see.
But if I had my Annie to bind up my wounds
One kiss from her sweet lips would soon deaden the stoun.
And it's when I am weary and think on lang syne
When I was a miner and wrought in the mine
Oh, the tears they do trickle and down they do fall
like the roses that bloom around bonny Woodhall.
Where me and my Annie so often have been
When the hours flew past us, right happy were we,
It was little she thought that a soldier I'd be
But it's farewell to Annie and I must away
For the King he needs soldiers and I must obey.
But if providence proves kind, love, until I return
I will wed with dear Annie near Calder's clear burn
On the 14th of August our regiment was lost
And a ball from the enemy our lines came across
It struck me in the temple and the blood trickled down
I reeled and I staggered and I fell to the ground.
"Come here," says our captain, "come here with good speed
For I fear by this bullet, young Dinsmore, lies dead."
Two men with a stretcher did quickly prepare,
And they carried me away to a hospital there.
Cold water and brandy they poured out so free,
They turned me all over my wounds for to see.
But if I had my Annie to bind up my wounds
One kiss from her sweet lips would soon deaden the stoun.
And it's when I am weary and think on lang syne
When I was a miner and wrought in the mine
Oh, the tears they do trickle and down they do fall
like the roses that bloom around bonny Woodhall.
envoyé par Bernart Bartleby - 30/3/2018 - 11:55
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Minatore e soldato, sempre in pericolo, sempre in guerra...