Die Moorsoldaten [Börgermoorlied; Das Moorlied]
Rudi Goguel| 4a. Le chant des marais: La versione francese | |
| THE BOG BATTALION (Die Moorsoldaten) Any directions you might see, Bog and heath is everywhere. Here are no birds to sing for me The oaks, they stand twisted and bare. We are the bog battalion, On spade instead of stallion, In bog. In such a deserted landscape Just for us, this compound dire. Far from friends and with no escape We are cached behind barbed wire. We are the bog battalion, On spade instead of stallion, In bog. Columns long, we head for the bog To dig the early morning. We sweat in sun, work like a dog, And think of loved ones mourning. We are the bog battalion, On spade instead of stallion, In bog. Thought to home and hearth do return, To parents, wife and children. Many a breast may sigh and yearn To leave this prison, when, oh when? We are the bog battalion, On spade instead of stallion, In bog. The patrols guard us day and night, Escape is a losing sport. Your life's not worth attempted flight, Four rings of wire fence the fort. We are the bog battalion, On spade instead of stallion, In bog. Complaining will not set us free; Winter can't last forever. The time will come when we will see, Our homeland ours, together. Then no more bog battalion No spade instead of stallion In bog. | LE CHANT DES MARAIS Loin vers l’infini s’étendent Des grands prés marécageux. Pas un seul oiseau ne chante Sur les arbres secs et creux. Ô, terre de détresse Où nous devons sans cesse Piocher! Dans ce camp morne et sauvage Entouré de murs de fer Il nous semble vivre en cage Au milieu d’un grand désert Ô, terre de détresse Où nous devons sans cesse Piocher! Bruit des pas et bruit des armes, Sentinelles jours et nuits, Et du sang, des cris, des larmes, La mort pour celui qui fuit. Ô, terre de détresse Où nous devons sans cesse Piocher! Mais un jour dans notre vie, Le printemps refleurira. Liberté, liberté chérie Je dirai: « Tu es à moi !». Ô, terre d'allégresse Où nous pourrons sans cesse Aimer! |
