Farewell To Sicily
Hamish HendersonOriginale | Il testo originale della poesia di Henderson trascritto da The... |
FAREWELL TO SICILY The pipie is dozie, the pipie is fey He wullnae come round for his vino the day The sky o'er Messina is unco an' grey An' a' the bricht chaulmers are eerie Fareweel ye banks o' Sicily Fare ye weel ye valley an' shaw There's nae Jock will mourn the kyles o' ye Puir bliddy swaddies are weary Then doon the stair and line the waterside Wait your turn the ferry's awa' The doon the stair and line the waterside A' the bricht chaulmers are eerie Fareweel ye banks o' Sicily Fare ye weel ye valley an' shaw There's nae name can smoor the wiles o' ye Puir bliddy swaddies are weary The drummie is polisht, the drummie is braw He cannae be seen for his webbin' ava He's beezed himsel' up for a photy an' a' Tae leave with his Lola, his dearie Then fare weel ye dives o' Sicily Fare ye weel ye shielin' an' ha' We'll a mind shebeens an' bothies Whaur Jock made a date wi' his dearie Then fare weel ye dives o' Sicily Fare ye weel ye shielin' an' ha' We'll a mind shebeens an' bothies Whaur kind signorinas were cheerie Then tune the pipes and drub the tenor drum Leave your kit this side o' the wa' Then tune the pipes and drub the tenor drum A' the bricht chaulmers are eerie. | FIRST ELEGY: END OF A CAMPAIGN There are many dead in the brutish desert, Who lie uneasy Among the scrub in this landscape of half-wit Stunded ill-will. For the dead land is insatiate And necrophilous. The sand is blowing about still. Many who for various reasons, or because Of mere unanswerable compulsion, came here And fought among the clutching gravestones, Shivered and sweated, Cried out, suffered thirst, were stoically silent, cursed The spittering machine-guns, were homesick for Europe And fast embedded in quicksand of Africa Agonized and died. And sleep now. Sleep here the sleep of the dust. There were our own, there were the others. Their deaths were like their lives, human and animal. There were no gods and precious few heroes. What they regretted when they died had nothing to do with Race and leader, realm indivisible, Laboured Augustan speeches or vague imperial heritage. (They saw through that guff before the axe fell.) Their longing turned to The lost world glimpsed in the memory of letters: An evening at the pictures in the friendly dark, Two knowing conspirators smiling and whispering secrets; Or else A family gathering in the homely kitchen With Mum so proud of her boys in uniform: their thoughts trembled Between moments of estrangement, and ecstatic moments Of reconciliation: and their desire Crucified itself against the unutterable shadow of someone Whose photo was in their wallets, Then death made his incision. There were our own, there were the others. Therefore, minding the great word of Glencoe’s Son, that we should not disfigure ourselves With villainy of hatred; and seeing that all Have gone down like curs into anonymous silence, I will bear witness for I knew the others. Seeing that littoral and interior are alike indifferent And the birds are drawn again to our welcoming north Why should I not sing them, the dead, the innocent? |