And The Band Played Waltzin’ Matilda
I la banda tocà el Vals de Matilda
When I was a young man I carried my pack
And I lived the free life of a rover.
From the Murray green basin to the dusty outback,
I waltzed my Mathilda all over.
Then in nineteen fifteen my country said “Son,
It's time to stop rambling cos there's work to be done.”
So they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun
And they sent me away to the war.
And the band played Waltzing Mathilda,
As we sailed away from the quay
And amidst all the tears and the shouts and the cheers
We sailed off for Gallipoli.
Quan jo era jove, un fardell vaig portar
i roder en ma terra vaig viure.
De les verdes muntanyes a l’immens pedregar,
ballí el vals de Matilda ben lliure.
Però en mil nou-cents quinze em van dir: «Xaval,
la pàtria et reclama, hi ha una tasca que cal».
Em donaren un casc, un fusell i un punyal
i em dugueren molt lluny a la guerra.
I la banda tocà el vals de Matilda
mentre els xics embarcàvem al port.
Entre vítols i crits i missatges de sort,
vam salpar cap a Gal·lípoli.
How well I remember that terrible day,
When the blood stained the sand and the water.
And how in that hell that they called Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter.
Johnny Turk, he was ready, he primed himself well.
He shot us with bullets and he rained us with shells,
And in five minutes flat, he'd blown us all to hell,
Nearly blew us right back to Australia.
And the band played Waltzing Mathilda,
As we stopped to bury our slain,
And we buried ours and the Turks buried theirs,
Then it started all over again.
Me’n recorde molt bé del dia del terror
quan la sang tenyí l’aigua i l’arena,
La badia de Suvla fou l’escorxador,
a l’infern, no s’hi troba més pena.
Joan el Turc no era imbècil, s’havia estat preparant,
a aquella ratera ens anà arrossegant.
Una pluja de bales quasi ens tornà volant
en poc més d’uns minuts a Austràlia.
I la banda tocà el vals de Matilda
quan paràrem a enterrar tots els morts,
els nostres morts, i els turcs, els seus morts.
I el combat començà novament.
Now, those that were living did their best to survive
In that mad world of death, blood and fire.
And for seven long weeks I kept myself alive
But the corpses around me piled higher.
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over tit,
And when I awoke in my hospital bed
I saw what it had done, Christ, I wished I was dead.
Never knew there were worse things than dying.
And no more I'll go Waltzing Mathilda,
To the green bushes so far and free
For to hump tent and pegs, a man needs two legs,
No more waltzing Mathilda for me.
En un món dement de mort, sang i foc,
alguns com jo sobrevivien;
set llargues setmanes al maleït lloc
on les piles de cadàvers creixien.
I, de sobte, un canó m’encertà a l’engonal.
I quan vaig despertar en un llit d’hospital
vaig conéixer, en veure quin era el meu mal,
que hi ha coses pitjors que morir-se.
Ja no ballaré el vals de Matilda
entre els arbres, tan verds, tan llunyans.
Per viatjar i acampar no tinc prou amb les mans.
S’ha acabat el vals per a mi.
So they collected the crippled, the wounded, and maimed,
And they shipped us back home to Australia.
The legless, the armless, the blind and insane,
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla.
And when our ship pulled into Circular Quay
I looked at the place where my legs used to be
And I thank Christ there was nobody waiting for me
To grieve and to mourn and to pity.
But the band played Waltzing Mathilda
As they carried us down the gangway,
But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared,
Then they turned their faces away.
Ajuntaren després tots els mutilats
i ens van repatriar a Austràlia.
Els cegos, els coixos, mancs i trastornats,
els herois orgullosos de Suvla.
Quan el nostre vaixell entrà al Moll Circular
mirí on les meues cames havien d’estar.
No tenia ningú que em vinguera a esperar
i això al cel li ho vaig agrair.
I la banda tocà el vals de Matilda
atracàrem i baixàrem pel pont.
Però ningú va brindar. Ens miraven de front
i baixaven els ulls lentament.
And now every April I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me.
I see my old comrades, how proudly they march
Reliving the dreams and past glory.
And the old men march slowly, all bent, stiff and sore
The forgotten heroes of a forgotten war.
And the young people ask me “What are they marching for?”
And I ask myself the same question.
And the band plays Waltzing Mathilda,
And the old men still answer the call,
But year after year their numbers get fewer
Someday no one will march there at all.
I ara, cada abril, me n’isc al portó
i veig passar la desfilada.
Veig els meus camarades marxant al mateix so
revivint una glòria passada.
Els vells van a espai, torts i encarcarats.
D’una guerra oblidada, els herois oblidats.
La xicalla demana: «Per què van desfilant?»,
i això em pregunte jo a mi mateix.
I la banda toca el vals de Matilda
i n’hi ha qui a la crida respon,
però any rere any, qualques menys en són.
Algun dia, no hi vindrà ningú.
Waltzing Mathilda, Waltzing Mathilda.
Who'll come a-Waltzing Mathilda with me?
Vals de Matilda, vals de Matilda...
Qui vol ballar el vals junt a mi?
