New England Empire
Parody version of the famous "British Grenadiers" song used by revolutionary colonists in the early days of the American Revolutionary War. Written in 1774 by Josef Warren.
updated 4 years ago
Disclaimer: I took a handful of liberties while translating to make it more understandable for a western audience, though at certain points for example I had literally no idea what the lines between 0:32-0:40 were supposed to mean when directly translated, so tried my best to use contextual clues because the direct English translation was quite nonsensical to me.
Черный ворон, черный ворон,
Ты летал над всей землей.
Расскажи мне, что увидел
Там за кальмену с рекой.
Мало там или не мало,
Не до битых басурман?
Есть у них штыки и пули?
Чтоб нагрянуть в гости к нам.
Войск вражье пал не мало,
Там на калимену с реке.
И уже стоит а пуля,
Что назначена тебе.
Придут гости на рассвете,
Будет жарким долгий бой,
Будешь ты лежать убитый
Под сгоревшую сосной.
Если так должно случится,
Мне погибнуть на войне.
Полети ты черный ворон,
К молодой моей жене.
Передай прошу развода,
Чтоб женитьца на другой,
Чтоб на веки обвенчаться,
Мне с донецкою землей.
Чтоб на веки обвенчаться,
Мне с донецкою землей
Tongues of fire on Idris flaring,
News of foemen near declaring,
To heroic deeds of daring,
Call you, Harlech men.
Groans of wounded peasants dying,
Wails of wives and children flying,
For the distant succour crying,
Call you, Harlech Men.
Shall the voice of wailing,
Now be unavailing,
You to rouse, who never yet
In battle's hour were failing?
This our answer, crowds down pouring,
Swift as winter torrents roaring.
Not in vain the voice imploring
Calls on Harlech men.
Loud the martial pipes are sounding,
Every manly heart is bounding,
As our trusted chief surrounding,
March we, Harlech men.
Short the sleep the foe is taking;
Ere the morrow's morn is breaking,
They shall have a rude awakening,
Roused by Harlech Men.
Mothers, cease your weeping,
Calm may be your sleeping,
You and yours in safety now,
The Harlech men are keeping.
Ere the sun is high in heaven,
They you fear, by panic riven,
Shall, like frightened sheep, be driven,
Far, by Harlech men.


