1.
Hear now the Song of the Dead - in the North by the torn berg-edges -
They that look still to the Pole, asleep by their hide-stripped sledges.
Song of the Dead in the South - in the sun by...Читать дальше
![]() Александр Локшин (1920–1987)Симфония № 3 для баритона, мужского хора и большого симфонического оркестра на стихи Р.Киплинга (1966) Скачать ноты ![]() 1.
Hear now the Song of the Dead - in the North by the torn berg-edges - They that look still to the Pole, asleep by their hide-stripped sledges. Song of the Dead in the South - in the sun by...Читать дальше
1.
Hear now the Song of the Dead - in the North by the torn berg-edges - They that look still to the Pole, asleep by their hide-stripped sledges. Song of the Dead in the South - in the sun by their skeleton horses, Where the warrigal whimpers and bays through the dust of the sear river-courses. Song of the Dead in the East - in the heat-rotted jungle hollows, Where the dog-ape barks in the kloof - in the brake of the buffalo-wallows. Song of the Dead in the West - in the Barrens, the waste that betrayed them, Where the wolverene tumbles their packs from the camp and the grave-mound they made them; Hear now the Song of the Dead! 2. We`re foot—slog—slog—slog—sloggin` over Africa! Foot—foot—foot—foot—sloggin` over Africa! (Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up and down again!) There`s no discharge in the war! Seven—six—eleven—five—nine-an`-twenty mile to-day Four—eleven—seventeen—thirty-two the day before (Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up and down again!) There`s no discharge in the war! Don`t—don`t—don`t—don`t—look at what`s in front of you (Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up an` down again); Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin` `em, An` there`s no discharge in the war. Try—try—try—try—to think o` something different - Oh—my—God—keep—me from goin` lunatic! (Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up an` down again!) There`s no discharge in the war. Count—count—count—count—the bullets in the bandoliers; If—your—eyes—drop—they will get atop o` you (Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up and down again) — There`s no discharge in the war! We—can—stick—out—`unger, thirst, an` weariness, But—not—not—not—not the chronic sight of `em; Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up an` down again, An` there`s no discharge in the war! `Tain`t—so—bad—by—day because o` company, But night—brings—long—strings o` forty thousand million Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up an` down again. There`s no discharge in the war! I—`ave—marched—six—weeks in `Ell an` certify It—is—not—fire—devils dark or anything But boots—boots—boots, movin` up an` down again, An` there`s no discharge in the war! 3. If I were hanged on the highest hill, Mother o’ mine. O mother o’ mine! I know whose love would follow me still, Mother o’ mine. O mother o’ mine! If I were drowned in the deepest sea, Mother o mine. O mother o’ mine! I know whose tears would come down to me, Mother o’ mine. O mother o’ mine! If I were damned of body and soul, I know whose prayers would make me whole, Mother o’ mine. O mother o’ mine! Х Свернуть Выводить записи: по популярности | по рейтингу исполнителя | по алфавиту
Геннадий Рождественский
(дирижер),
Стивен Робертс
(баритон),
Симфонический оркестр BBC,
Хор `Capella Piccola`
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