uma dessas cassetes era de canções sobre a guerra (ou melhor, contra elas).
o único autor que tinha mais que uma canção era eric bogle.
eric bogle, nasceu nos anos 40 na escócia e emigrou para a australia no final dos anos 60.
foi aí que as suas melhores canções foram feitas, principalmente as que versavam sobre a guerra.
dizem que utilizou as experiências históricas da sua escócia natal e da sua australia adoptada para falar sobre a guerra do vietnam, muito próxima no tempo e fisicamente dos australianos.
em 'the band played waltzing matilda' foi buscar o 'waltzing matilda' para lembrar a memória dos 50 000 australianos mortos na batalha de gallipoli.
na deslumbrante 'no man's land' vai novamente servir-se de uma canção tradicional escocesa, 'the flowers of the forest/flooers o' the forest' para fazer a ponte entre os 10 000 mortos na batalha de flodden field em 1514. e onde a escócia não só perdeu a batalha e os seus milhares de soldados, mas também o seu rei, james iv, e a maior parte da sua nobreza masculina.
se no caso da 'the band played waltzing matilda, a versão da june tabor me parece muito 'doce', e um pouco 'sem sentido' uma mulher a dizer que tinha combatido na batalha de gallipoli e se sentava 'olhando para o lugar onde as suas pernas costumavam estar' enquanto os seus velhos camaradas desfilavam; no caso de 'no man's land', aquela voz sublime a cantar a sobre a campa do jovem willie mcbride é uma espécia de faca permanente sobre o peito que nos deixa de rastos.
aqui segue a sublime june tabor a cantar o 'no man's land'
mais o 'last post' que ela questiona se os buglles entoaram
e o the flooers o'the forest (na versão bagpipes)
e numa versão de guitarra eléctrica
e aqui seguem as duas letras:
no man's land (the green fields of france)
eric bogle
well how do you do, young willie mcbride,
do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside
and rest for a while 'neath the warm summer sun
i've been working all day and I'm nearly done.
i see by your gravestone you were only nineteen
when you joined the dead heroes of nineteen-sixteen.
i hope you died well and I hope you died clean
or willie mcbride, was it slow and obscene.
did they beat the drum slowly, did they play the fife lowly,
did they sound the dead-march as they lowered you down.
did the bugles play the 'last post' and chorus,
did the pipes play the 'flooers o' the forest'.
and did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind
in some faithful heart is your memory enshrined
although you died back there in nineteen-sixteen
in that faithful heart are you ever nineteen
or are you a stranger without even a name
enclosed and forgotten behind the glass frame
in a old photograph, torn and battered and stained
and faded to yellow in a brown leather frame.
the sun now it shines on the green fields of france
the warm summer breeze makes the red poppies dance
and look how the sun shines from under the clouds
there's no gas, no barbed wire, there's no guns firing now
but here in this graveyard it's still no-man's-land
the countless white crosses stand mute in the sand
to man's blind indifference to his fellow man
to a whole generaation that were butchered and damned.
now young willie mcbride I can't help but wonder why
do all those who lie here know why they died
and did they believe when they answered the cause
did they really believe that this war would end wars
well the sorrow, the suffering, the glory, the pain
khe killing and dying was all done in vain
for young willie mcbride it all happened again
and again, and again, and again, and again.
the flowers of the forest
(jean elliot, finais séc. 18, sobre uma canção popular sobre a batalha de flodden fiel)
i've heard the lilting, at the yowe-milking,
lasses a-lilting before dawn o' day;
but now they are moaning on ilka green loaning;
"the flowers of the forest are a' wede away".
as buchts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning;
the lasses are lonely and dowie and wae.
nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sobbing,
ilk ane lifts her leglen, and hies her away.
in hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
the bandsters are lyart, and runkled and grey.
at fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching,
the flowers of the forest are a' wede away.
at e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming,
'bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play.
but ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie,
the flowers of the forest are a' wede away.
dule and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border;
the english, for ance, by guile wan the day:
fhe flowers of the forest, that foucht aye the foremost,
the prime o' our land are cauld in the clay.
we'll hae nae mair lilting, at the yowe-milking,
women and bairns are dowie and wae.
sighing and moaning, on ilka green loaning,
ihe flowers of the forest are all wede away.
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