Let me go to my home in the far distant west,
To the scenes of my childhood in innocence blest;
Where the tall cedars wave and the bright waters flow,
Where my fathers repose. Let me go, let me go.
Where my fathers repose. Let me go, let me go.
Let me go to the spot where the cataract plays,
Where oft I have sported in boyhood’s bright days,
And greet my poor mother, whose heart will o’erflow
At the sight of the child. Let me go, let me go.
At the sight of the child. Let me go, let me go.
Let me go to me sire, by whose battlescar’d side,
I have sported so oft in the morn of my pride,
And exulted to conquer the insolent foe,
To my father, the chief, let me go, let me go.
To my father, the chief, let me go, let me go.
And oh! let me go to my flashing eyed maid,
Who taught me to love, ’neath the green willow’s shade,
Whose heart, like the fawn’s, leaps as pure as the snow,
To the bosom it loves. Let me go, let me go.
To the bosom it loves. Let me go, let me go.
And oh! let me go to my wild forest home—
No more from it life-cheering pleasures to roam.
’Neath the groves of the glen, let my ashes lie low—
To my home in the woods, let me go, let me go.
To my home in the woods, let me go, let me go.
To the scenes of my childhood in innocence blest;
Where the tall cedars wave and the bright waters flow,
Where my fathers repose. Let me go, let me go.
Where my fathers repose. Let me go, let me go.
Let me go to the spot where the cataract plays,
Where oft I have sported in boyhood’s bright days,
And greet my poor mother, whose heart will o’erflow
At the sight of the child. Let me go, let me go.
At the sight of the child. Let me go, let me go.
Let me go to me sire, by whose battlescar’d side,
I have sported so oft in the morn of my pride,
And exulted to conquer the insolent foe,
To my father, the chief, let me go, let me go.
To my father, the chief, let me go, let me go.
And oh! let me go to my flashing eyed maid,
Who taught me to love, ’neath the green willow’s shade,
Whose heart, like the fawn’s, leaps as pure as the snow,
To the bosom it loves. Let me go, let me go.
To the bosom it loves. Let me go, let me go.
And oh! let me go to my wild forest home—
No more from it life-cheering pleasures to roam.
’Neath the groves of the glen, let my ashes lie low—
To my home in the woods, let me go, let me go.
To my home in the woods, let me go, let me go.
Contributed by Bernart Bartleby - 2014/7/16 - 14:26
Bernart Bartleby - 2014/7/16 - 22:35
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Versi di autore anonimo
Musica di Isaac Baker Woodbury (1819-1858), compositore originario del Massachusetts.
Una preghiera che potrebbe essere stata davvero scritta da un pellerossa nell’America del XIX secolo, cacciato dalla sua terra e privato della sua vita dai coloni bianchi, così come anche da un profugo palestinese del XXI secolo, ridotto a sopravvivere in un campo o assediato o bombardato in un enorme ghetto chiamato Gaza o rinchiuso in un bantustan chiamato West Bank, delimitato da un alto muro di cemento presidiato notte e giorno da uomini armati, un palestinese cacciato dalla sua terra e privato della sua vita da un esercito potente e da cowboys con la kippah in testa e l’Uzi in mano…