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Aisling

  • Shane MacGowan / Christy Moore
  • See the bright new moon is rising above the land of black and green
    Hear the rebel voices calling, I will not die though you bury me

    The aunt upstairs in the bed she is calling, Why has he forsaken me
    Faded pictures in the hallway, which of them brown ghosts is he

    Bless the wind that shakes the barley, curse the spade and curse the plough
    I've counted years and the weeks and days and I wish to God that I was with you now

    Fare thee well, my black-haired diamond, fare thee well, my own Aisling
    At night fond dreams of you still haunt me far across the grey north sea

    And the wind it blows
    From the North and South
    To the East and the West
    I'll be like the wind, my love
    I will know no rest
    Until I return to thee

    One two three four telegraph poles standing on the cold black road
    The night is bursting into morning, give us a drop of your sweet poteen

    The rain was lashing, the sun was rising, the wind was whipping through the trees
    The madness from the mountains crawling when I saw you first, my own Aisling

    Bless the wind that shakes the barley, curse the spade and curse the plough
    I've counted years and the weeks and days and I wish to God that I was with you now

    Fare thee well, my black-haired diamond, fare thee well, my own Aisling
    At night fond dreams of you still haunt me far across the grey north sea

    (as sung by Christy Moore)

Susannes Folksong-Notizen

  • nothing / nichts

Quelle: Ireland

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Henry
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aktualisiert am 02.04.2010, 28.10.1999