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Thread: Από την Αγγλία και τη Σκοτία, την Ιρλανδία και την Ουαλία: Μπαλάντες και τραγούδια του λαού

  1. #11
    Administrator nickel's Avatar
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    Στίχοι τραγουδιών 1ης εκπομπής:

    The Two Magicians

    The lady sits in her own front door
    As straight as the willow wand
    And by there come a lusty smith
    With a hammer in his hand
    And he said bide lady bide
    There's nowhere you can hide
    For the lusty smith will be your love
    And he will lay your pride.
    Well may you stand you lady fair
    All in your robes of red
    But come tomorrow at this same time
    I'll have you in me bed.
    And he said bide lady bide ...
    Away away you coal-black smith
    Would you do me this wrong
    To think to have me maidenhead
    That I have kept so long
    I'd rather I was dead and cold
    And me body laid in the grave
    Than a lusty dusty coal-black smith
    Me maidenhead should have
    So the lady she held up her hand
    She swore upon her soul
    That she'd not need the blacksmith's love
    For all of a box of gold.
    But the blacksmith he held up his hand
    And he swore upon the mass
    Saying I'll have you in me bed young girl
    For the half of that or less
    Bide lady bide ...
    So the lady she turned into a dove
    And she flew up in the air
    But he became an old cock pigeon
    And they flew pair and pair
    Crying bide lady bide ...
    So the lady she turned into a hare
    And she ran across the plain
    But he became a greyhound dog
    And he ran her down again
    Crying bide lady bide ...
    So she became a little mare
    As dark as the night was black
    But he became a golden saddle
    And he clung onto her back
    Crying bide lady bide ...
    Μένω ΕυρώπηΣύγκρουση ιδεών, όχι βία και μισαλλοδοξία: δεν οδηγούν πουθενά. (Λ. Κύρκος)Θα περάσει κι αυτό
    ΕΝΑ ΝΗΜΑ ΤΗΝ ΗΜΕΡΑ ΤΗΝ ΑΝΙΑ ΚΑΝΕΙ ΠΕΡΑ. Staying hungry, staying foolish. Το διαδίκτυο βλάπτει όταν δεν σκέφτεσαι.

  2. #12
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    Η πρώτη εκπομπή πάντως, καλά ακούγεται

  3. #13
    Senior Member SBE's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by nickel View Post
    Διαφωνώ απόλυτα με το ότι το είδος είναι τελείως περιθωριακό στο ΗΒ. Δεν θα πιστέψεις πόσα γιουτιουμπάκια υπάρχουν με ιδιωτικές εκτελέσεις αυτών των τραγουδιών. Και αυτό που είπα για τους ροκάδες. Αλλά οι ροκάδες την ήξεραν αυτή τη μουσική.
    Ιδιωτικές εκτελέσεις βρίσκεις, όπως και σε μαθήματα τραγουδιού που έκανα παλιότερα μόνο παραδοσιακά μας έβαζαν να τραγουδάμε (ίσως είχε να κάνει και με κοπιράιτ), αλλά το είδος δεν παίζει καθόλου σε ραδιόφωνα και τηλεοράσεις, ούτε έχει τύχει τόσα χρόνια να γνωρίσω κανέναν οπαδό, έχει εκτοπιστεί κυρίως από την world music. Εννοείται ότι σύγχρονη φολκλορική μουσική ακούγεται, και ειδικά από Ιρλανδία, αλλά δεν είναι το ίδιο.

  4. #14
    Administrator nickel's Avatar
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    Μα έχετε ακούσει καλύτερο τραγούδι καλύτερα εκτελεσμένο; (Εξίσου καλά, πολλά.)
    Από την παλιοσειρά μου (του ρίχνω δυο βδομάδες).

    Traffic / Steve Winwood: John Barleycorn
    Last edited by daeman; 14-01-2011 at 04:37 PM. Reason: αντικατάσταση συνδέσμου βίντεο λόγω αφαίρεσης του παλιού από το youtube
    Μένω ΕυρώπηΣύγκρουση ιδεών, όχι βία και μισαλλοδοξία: δεν οδηγούν πουθενά. (Λ. Κύρκος)Θα περάσει κι αυτό
    ΕΝΑ ΝΗΜΑ ΤΗΝ ΗΜΕΡΑ ΤΗΝ ΑΝΙΑ ΚΑΝΕΙ ΠΕΡΑ. Staying hungry, staying foolish. Το διαδίκτυο βλάπτει όταν δεν σκέφτεσαι.

  5. #15
    Administrator nickel's Avatar
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    Στίχοι τραγουδιών 2ης εισαγωγικής εκπομπής:
    (Μπαλάντες – Βιομηχανική Επανάσταση)

    Hugh the Graeme

    The Lord Home is a-hunting gane,
    Over the woods and valleys clear,
    And he has taen Sir Hugh the Graeme,
    For stealing o the bishop’s mare.
    They hae taen Sir Hugh the Graeme,
    And led him down thro Strieveling town;
    Fifteen o them cried a’ at ance,
    ‘Sir Hugh the Graeme he must go down!’
    ‘Were I to die,’ says Hughie the Graeme
    ‘My parents would think it a very great luck;’
    Through fifteen feet in the air he jumped,
    With hands bound fast behind his back.
    Then out and spake the lady Black,
    And o her will she was right free:
    ‘A thousand pounds, my lord, I’ll gie,
    If Hugh the Graeme set free to me.’
    ‘Ye hold your tongue, ye Lady Black,
    And ye’ll let a’ your pleadings be!
    Though ye woud gie me thousands ten,
    It’s for my honour he must die.’

    Πλήρεις παραλλαγές εδώ: http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Child%27s_Ballads/191


    The Durham Lockout

    In our Durham County, I am sorry for to say
    That hunger and starvation is increasing every day
    For the want of food and coals, we know not what to do
    But with your kind assistance, we’ll see the battle through.

    I need not state the reason why we have been brought so low
    The masters have behaved unkind, which everyone well knows
    Because we won't lie down and let them treat us as they like
    To punish us they've stopped their pits and caused the present strike.

    The pulley wheel have ceased to move which went so swift around
    The horses and the ponies too are brought from underground
    Our work is taken from us and they care not if we die
    For they can eat the best of food and drink the best when dry.

    The miner and his marra, too, each morning have to roam
    To seek for bread to feed the hungry little ones at home
    The flour barrel is empty now, their true and faithful friend
    Which makes the thousands wish today the strike was at an end.

    (We have done our very best as honest working men
    To let the pits commence again, we've offered to them ten
    The offer they will not accept, they firmly do demand
    Thirteen and a half percent or let the collieries stand)

    Well, let them stand or let them lie to do with them as they choose
    To give them thirteen and a half we ever shall refuse
    They're always willing to receive, but never inclined to give
    Very soon they won't allow a working man to live

    With tyranny and capital they never seem content
    Unless they are endeavoring to take from us percent
    If it was due, what they request, we willingly would grant
    We know it's not, therefore we cannot give them what they want

    The miners of Northumberland, we shall forever praise
    For being so kind in helping us, those tyrannizing days
    We thank the other counties too, that have been doing the same
    For every man who hears this song will know we're not to blame
    Last edited by nickel; 12-07-2010 at 08:21 PM.
    Μένω ΕυρώπηΣύγκρουση ιδεών, όχι βία και μισαλλοδοξία: δεν οδηγούν πουθενά. (Λ. Κύρκος)Θα περάσει κι αυτό
    ΕΝΑ ΝΗΜΑ ΤΗΝ ΗΜΕΡΑ ΤΗΝ ΑΝΙΑ ΚΑΝΕΙ ΠΕΡΑ. Staying hungry, staying foolish. Το διαδίκτυο βλάπτει όταν δεν σκέφτεσαι.

  6. #16
    Administrator nickel's Avatar
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    Στίχοι τραγουδιών 3η εκπομπής
    Στον κόσμο του υπερφυσικού και της δεισιδαιμονίας
    (Συμμετέχει και η Χριστίνα Κουτσουδάκη.)

    The Elfin Knight
    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Elfin_Knight
    (Ewan MacColl)

    There stands three trumpeters on yon hill
    Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
    And they blaw their trumpets sae loud and shrill
    And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

    Gin I'd his trumpet in my kist
    Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
    And was in the lad's arms that I like best
    And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

    Gin ye would be wed wi' me
    Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
    There's ae thing ye maun dae for me
    And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

    Ye maun mak' me a linen sark
    Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
    Without a stitch o' needlewark
    And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

    Ye maun wash it in yon draw-well
    Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
    Where water never sprang or fell
    And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

    Ye maun drt't on yon hawthorn
    Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
    That hasna seen blossom since man was born
    And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

    (And gin I mak'a sark for thee
    Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
    There's ae thing ye maun dae for me
    And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

    My faither has an acre o' land
    Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
    Ye maun plough it wi' you ae hand
    And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

    Ye maun sow it wantin' corn
    Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
    And roll it wi' a sheep's shank-bone
    And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

    Ye maun shear it wi' a scythe o' leather
    Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
    And bind it wi' a peacock's feather
    And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

    Ye maun stook it in the sea
    Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
    And bring the whaetsheaf dry to me
    And the wind it blaws my plaid awa'

    And gin ye wark noo all this wark
    Blaw, blaw, blaw winds, blaw
    Come to me and you'll get your sark
    And the wind it blaws my plaid awa' )


    Scarborough Fair
    Marianne Faithfull

    Have you been to Scarborough Fair
    Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
    Remember me to one that lives there
    For once she once was a true lover of mine.

    Tell her to make me a cambric shirt
    Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
    One with no seams, of fine needlework
    And then she'll be a true lover of mine.

    Tell her to dry it upon yonder thorn
    Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
    That never bore fruit since Adam was born
    And then she'll be a true lover of mine.

    Ah, can you find me an acre of land
    Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
    Between the salt sea and the sea sand
    Or never be a true lover of mine.

    And can you plough it with a sheep's horn
    Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
    And sow it all over with one peppercorn
    Or never be a true lover of mine.

    And when you have done and finished your work
    Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
    Then come to me for your cambric shirt
    And then you'll be a true lover of mine.


    The Unquiet Grave
    (version sung by Joan Baez)

    Cold blows the wind to my true love,
    And gently drops the rain.
    I've never had but one true love,
    And in greenwood he lies slain.
    I'll do as much for my true love,
    As any young girl may,
    I'll sit and mourn all on his grave,
    For twelve months and a day.
    And when twelve months and a day was passed,
    The ghost did rise and speak,
    Why sittest thou all on my grave
    And will not let me sleep?
    Go fetch me water from the desert,
    And blood from out of a stone,
    Go fetch me milk from a fair maid's breast
    That a young man never has known.
    How oft on yonder grave, sweetheart,
    Where we were wont to walk,
    The fairest flower that e'er I saw
    Has withered to a stalk.
    The stalk is withered and dead, sweetheart,
    The flower will never return,
    And since I've lost my own true love,
    What can I do but yearn.
    When will we meet again, sweetheart,
    When will we meet again?
    When the autumn leaves that fall from the trees
    Are green and spring up again.
    Μένω ΕυρώπηΣύγκρουση ιδεών, όχι βία και μισαλλοδοξία: δεν οδηγούν πουθενά. (Λ. Κύρκος)Θα περάσει κι αυτό
    ΕΝΑ ΝΗΜΑ ΤΗΝ ΗΜΕΡΑ ΤΗΝ ΑΝΙΑ ΚΑΝΕΙ ΠΕΡΑ. Staying hungry, staying foolish. Το διαδίκτυο βλάπτει όταν δεν σκέφτεσαι.

  7. #17
    Administrator nickel's Avatar
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    Στίχοι τραγουδιών 4ης εκπομπής
    Carols – Θρησκευτικά τραγούδια



    The Cherry-Tree Carol
    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Cherry-Tree_Carol

    Now Joseph and Mary walked in the garden green,
    where the cherries hung heavy on every limb

    "Pick me some cherries, Joseph,
    pick me some cherries, do,
    pick me some cherries, Joseph,
    that hang on the bough"

    Then up spoke old Joseph with his words so unkind:
    "Let the man gather the cherries that owneth the child."

    Then up spoke our Saviour all in his mother's womb (?):
    "Bow down, thou lofty cherry tree, that Mary may have some"
    The very top branches bowed down to her feet
    "Now you can see, Joseph, there are cherries for me."


    The Bitter Withy
    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bitter_Withy

    (The Bert Lloyd version)

    As it befell on a bright holiday
    Small hail from the sky did fall.
    Our Saviour asked his mother dear
    If he might go and play at ball.

    At ball, at ball, my own dear son,
    It is time that you were gone.
    But don't let me hear of any mischief
    At night when you come home

    So up the hill and down the hill
    Our sweet young Saviour run
    Until he met three rich young lords
    Good morning to each one

    Good morn, good morn, good morn said they
    Good morning, then said he
    And which of you three rich young lords
    Will play at ball with me?

    (Oh we are lords and ladies' sons
    Born in the bower and hall
    And you are nothing but a poor Jew's child
    Born in an ox's stall.

    Well if I'm nothing but a poor Jew's child
    Born in an ox's stall
    I'll make you believe to your latter end
    I'm an angel above you all.

    So he's built him a bridge from the beams of the sun
    And over the water ran he
    And the rich young lords ran after him
    And drowned they were all three.

    Then it's up the hill and down the hill
    Three rich young mothers run
    Saying Mary mild, fetch home your child
    For ours he's killed each one

    So Mary mild fetched home her child
    And laid him across her knee
    And with a twig of willow wand
    She gave him lashes three.

    Oh bitter withy, oh bitter withy
    Since you've caused me to smart
    The willow shall be the very first tree
    To perish at the heart.)


    Από τον παγανιστικό κόσμο:
    John Barleycorn


    (Traditional version)
    There was three men came out of the west,
    Their fortunes for to try,
    And these three men made a solemn vow,
    John Barleycorn should die.
    They ploughed, they sowed, they harrowed him in,
    Throwed clods upon his head,
    And these three men made a solemn vow,
    John Barleycorn was dead.

    They let him lie for a very long time
    Till the rain from heav’n did fall,
    Then little Sir John sprung up his head,
    And soon amazed them all.
    They let him stand till midsummer’s day
    Till he looked both pale and wan,
    And little Sir John growed a long long beard
    And so became a man.

    They hired men with the scythes so sharp
    To cut him off at the knee,
    They rolled him and tied him by the waist,
    And served him most barbarously.
    They hired men with the sharp pitchforks
    Who pricked him to the heart,
    And the loader he served him worse than that,
    For he bound him to the cart.

    They wheeled him round and round the field
    Till they came unto the barn,
    And there they made a solemn mow
    of poor John Barleycorn.
    They hired men with the crab-tree sticks
    To cut him skin from bone,
    And the miller he served him worse than that,
    For he ground him between two stones.

    Here's little Sir John in a nut-brown bowl,
    And brandy in a glass;
    And little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl
    Proved the stronger man at last.
    And the huntsman he can't hunt the fox,
    Nor so loudly blow his horn,
    And the tinker he can't mend kettles or pots
    Without a little of Barleycorn.


    (The Traffic version)

    There were three men came out of the west, their fortunes for to try
    And these three men made a solemn vow
    John Barleycorn must die
    They've ploughed, they've sown, they've harrowed him in
    Threw clods upon his head
    And these three men made a solemn vow
    John Barleycorn was dead
    They've let him lie for a very long time, 'til the rains from heaven did fall
    And little Sir John sprung up his head and so amazed them all
    They've let him stand 'til Midsummer's Day 'til he looked both pale and wan
    And little Sir John's grown a long long beard and so become a man
    They've hired men with their scythes so sharp to cut him off at the knee
    They've rolled him and tied him by the waist serving him most barbarously
    They've hired men with their sharp pitchforks who've pricked him to the heart
    And the loader he has served him worse than that
    For he's bound him to the cart
    They've wheeled him around and around a field 'til they came unto a barn

    And there they made a solemn oath on poor John Barleycorn
    They've hired men with their crabtree sticks to cut him skin from bone
    And the miller he has served him worse than that
    For he's ground him between two stones

    And little Sir John and the nut brown bowl and his brandy in the glass
    And little Sir John and the nut brown bowl proved the strongest man at last
    The huntsman he can't hunt the fox nor so loudly to blow his horn
    And the tinker he can't mend kettle or pots without a little barleycorn
    Μένω ΕυρώπηΣύγκρουση ιδεών, όχι βία και μισαλλοδοξία: δεν οδηγούν πουθενά. (Λ. Κύρκος)Θα περάσει κι αυτό
    ΕΝΑ ΝΗΜΑ ΤΗΝ ΗΜΕΡΑ ΤΗΝ ΑΝΙΑ ΚΑΝΕΙ ΠΕΡΑ. Staying hungry, staying foolish. Το διαδίκτυο βλάπτει όταν δεν σκέφτεσαι.

  8. #18
    Senior Member oliver_twisted's Avatar
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    The lark in the morning. Παραδοσιακό




    The lark in the morning she rises off her nest
    She goes home in the evening with the dew all on her breast
    And like the jolly ploughboy she whistles and she sings
    She goes home in the evening with the dew all on her wings

    Oh, Roger the ploughboy he is a dashing blade
    He goes whistling and singing over yonder leafy shade
    He met with pretty Susan, she's handsome I declare
    She is far more enticing then the birds all in the air

    The lark ...

    One evening coming home from the rakes of the town
    The meadows been all green and the grass had been cut down
    As I should chance to tumble all in the new-mown hay
    Oh, it's kiss me now or never love, this bonnie lass did say

    The lark ...

    When twenty long weeks they were over and were past
    Her mommy chanced to notice how she thickened round the waist
    It was the handsome ploughboy, the maiden she did say
    For he caused for to tumble all in the new-mown hay

    The lark...
    Here's a health to y'all ploughboys wherever you may be
    That likes to have a bonnie lass a sitting on his knee
    With a jug of good strong porter you'll whistle and you'll sing
    For a ploughboy is as happy as a prince or a king

    The lark...
    Insert meaningful message

  9. #19
    Senior Member oliver_twisted's Avatar
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    (Trad)
    Curfá (Chorus)
    Téir abhaile riú
    Téir abhaile riú
    Téir abhaile riú Mhary
    Téir abhaile riú 's fan sa bhaile
    Mar tá do mhargadh déanta

    Chorus:
    Go home with you
    Go home with you
    Go home with you, Mary
    Go home with you and stay at home
    Because your match is made

    Is cuma cé dhein é nó nár dhein
    Is cuma cé dhein é Mhary
    Is cuma cé dhein é nó nár dhein mar
    Tá do mhargadh déanta

    It doesn't matter who made it or who didn't
    It doesn't matter who made it, Mary
    It doesn't matter who made it or who didn't
    Because your match is made

    Pós an piobaire
    Pós an piobaire
    Pós an piobaire Mhary
    Pós an piobaire dtús na hoíche
    Is beidh sé agat ar maidin

    Marry the piper
    Marry the piper
    Marry the piper, Mary
    Marry the piper early at night
    And you'll have him in the morning

    Níl do mhargadh
    Tá do mharghad
    Níl mo mhardadh déanta
    Tá do mhargadh
    Níl do mhargadh
    Tá do mhargadh déanta

    My match isn't
    Your match is
    My match isn't made
    Your match is
    My match isn't
    Your match is made
    Insert meaningful message

  10. #20
    Senior Member daeman's Avatar
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    (Παραδοσιακό, οι στίχοι από εδώ με μπόνους την τελευταία στροφή)

    Och weel dae I mind in the days o' lang syne,
    When I wis a laddie sae wee,
    If ever I'd gand tae dae onything wrang
    Ma mither wid lecture tae me,
    She'd say tae me then, "Bairn stay awa' frae the wimmin,
    Or ye'll rue it the day ye begin."
    So I never thocht twice aboot tak'n advice
    For twa heids are better than yin!

    Translated:
    Oh well do I remember in days long ago
    When I was a little lad,
    If I ever tried to do anything wrong,
    My mother would lecture to me,
    She'd say to me, "Child stay away from the women
    Or you'll regret it the day you begin."
    So I never thought twice about taking advice
    For two heads are better than one!

    But me being young, all my wantin' was spun,
    So the first thing that I look'd for was a wife.
    And I found a wee tart wi' a wee warm heart
    Tae sew on my buttons for life.
    I called her my one and my wee cuttin' bun
    And I tickled her under the chin,
    And she'd say to me, lad, will ye nae mair gad,
    For Twa heids are better than yin.

    Last Saturday night, mon, I got such a fright
    That I nearly jumped oot o' my skin,
    For as sure as I'm here, my wee wife, I declare,
    She gae me a present o' twins!
    Says I tae her, Jean, what the hell do ye mean?
    It's a terrible thing that ye done!
    But she cried it out loud, "Mon, ye ought tae be proud,
    For twa heids are better than yin!"

    Ma mither-in-law is a crabbit aul' craw,
    She calls me a loafer and such,
    And a visit fae her, every weekend or so,
    Is a thing that I dinna like much,
    To the boozer I'll go,
    Wi some fella's I know,
    And I'll drink till my eyes start tae blin'
    But the sicht when I'm hame,
    Pits me right aff ma gemme,
    'Cos she's got twa heids instead o' her yin,

    Παρεμπιπτόντως, αυτό το βινύλιο ξαναστριφογύρισε χτες στο πικάπ μου μετά από 35+ χρόνια·
    το βρήκα καθώς τοποθετούσα τους δίσκους στα ράφια μετά τη μετακόμιση.
    Το είχε φέρει δώρο στους γονείς μου το 1963 ένας θείος που σπούδαζε τότε στη Γλασκόβη.
    Χαραγμένο το βινύλιο, μα σε καλύτερη κατάσταση από τον θείο που μας άφησε χρόνους πέρυσι τέτοια εποχή.
    Θεωρητικά, θεωρία και πράξη είναι το ίδιο πράγμα. Στην πράξη, όμως, διαφέρουν.
    When this you see, remember me and bear me in your mind, let all the world say what they may, speak of me as you find.

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