The Remnant by Babette Deutsch Lyrics
WHAT ails you now
That you are gone up to the house-tops
O you that are full of shoutings,
A tumultuous city, a joyous?
They are gone up to the house-tops
Windows, balconies crowded
A press of men in the streets
It will be soon now
Not Sennacherib heard it
Never was heard in Asia
This thick mob-mouthed thunder
Shouts roars multitudes cheering.
Pours from houses and pavements
enormous machinal
Thousand-throated frenzy.
Now
Motors flanked by machine-guns
Tear-gas bombs held ready
Armoured cars come bristling
Not invincible Caesar
Rode so panoplied. Smiling
Comes, in an armoured car, steel vest under trench-cloth,
Shouts acclamations rejoicings
Comes...
Make an uproar, O ye peoples,
And ye shall be broken in pieces,
And give ear, all ye of far countries:
HE comes
Bows from his armoured
Car, answers salute with salute
Bows across barrage of
Dark shirts, faces frozen
Above fixed bayonets
Make an uproar
(Smiling)
All ye of far countries
(Salute)
And ye shall be broken in pieces
The house-tops lie in the street
The pavements shudder beneath their
Burden the dead hurled
With the living
Broken in pieces
The smoke curls upward
broken
What is the noise of a city?
Wheels, horns, radios, voices
raised in anger, in laughter
Murmur of multitudes muffled mutter of traffic.
What are these noises?
The whine of a shell the split
Scream the ambulance sirens,
The groans of a thousand.
Give ear, all ye of far countries.
The house-walls clutter the street
Grins from an upper storey
flesh torn from the bone
The furniture, broken in pieces.
(The movie palace was crowded).
There are the subways for refuge
At the entrance you meet them
Women, big-bellied children, swollen with wind
Or they wander
beyond the city limits
In the corridors of the mines
you will find them asleep
The summer fruits are not gathered.
Give ear, all ye of far countries.
Where they prepare the table,
They spread the carpets,
They eat, they drink,
Where there are lights and singing
Wine of choice and a swing song
Lights on the burnished hair, flesh luminous as jewels,
Lights in the eyes that glaze
The throat shaken with laughter
Your slain are not slain with the sword
Neither are they dead in battle.
What will you do
In the desolation which shall come?
To whom will you flee for help?
And where will you leave your glory?
They shall bow down under the prisoners and
shall fall under the slain.
And those in the joyous city?
They shall come down from the house-tops
They shall go up from the streets
separately and alone
Who shared in the glory
Will look for their portion
and find it
To each his mouthful of malice
To each his fistful of hate.
Who heard the shouts behind shutters
Who heard the shouts and were silent
Will take what is given
Some to meet in the camps
over the filth of latrines
Some to meet by the wall
facing the guns
Some to meet in the pit
where the suicides are flung
Some never to meet, but to sit
In darkened chambers, alone
The sun hidden from them
The lamp at evening unlit
What passes for thought among them
Revolving with envy
About the fate of an exile
Watchman, what of the night?
The sun is hidden from us
The light of the moon is dimmed
But the pharos shines
at the air-port
The word is
ceiling unlimited
A clear night for bombing
And after
The cave, the abandoned mine
the subway crowded with sleepers
Darkness over the city
Darkness over the village
And over the pastures, darkness
Over the orchards and fields
Darkness over the vineyards.
Watchman, what of the night?
How does it pass in the trenches?
In the hospital and the prison?
What of the night of exile?
And those not slain with the sword,
Nor with the gun and the
Bayonet.
Those dead,
But not dead in battle.
The dead who are poisoned with power
The dead in the places of power
Who are buying and selling the nations
Dealers in houses and land and works and bread and munitions
Those dead, but not dead in battle
The dead who own the living.
To whom will they flee for help?
And where will they leave their glory?
The people are starving
The people are fed on lies
There is death in the pot
The poor are devoured by lack
the coffin is bought on credit
The rich are asking
Which mountains are free for skiing?
For sunning, what southern beaches?
The passports are ready, crisply
The letters of credit folded.
Billions for battleships
the contracts are quickly prepared
How much to rebuild
the laboratory in ruins?
O Attila! O Alexander!
The delightful city
is become a madhouse
The populous earth
is become a cemetery
Sargon also
Governed by thuggery
The dead against the living.
But the remnant
Who lie out in the fields
Or watch in the cities,
or wait
In the prisons,
or work
Where the oppressor is strong.
Those who refuse madness
Those who resist death
Those whose mouths are not stopped
By the guns
or the wails of the children
Whose hearts are not to be broken
Whose minds are not to be broken
Whose will is not to be broken
Go up to the house-top, Watchman
What of the night?
That you are gone up to the house-tops
O you that are full of shoutings,
A tumultuous city, a joyous?
They are gone up to the house-tops
Windows, balconies crowded
A press of men in the streets
It will be soon now
Not Sennacherib heard it
Never was heard in Asia
This thick mob-mouthed thunder
Shouts roars multitudes cheering.
Pours from houses and pavements
enormous machinal
Thousand-throated frenzy.
Now
Motors flanked by machine-guns
Tear-gas bombs held ready
Armoured cars come bristling
Not invincible Caesar
Rode so panoplied. Smiling
Comes, in an armoured car, steel vest under trench-cloth,
Shouts acclamations rejoicings
Comes...
Make an uproar, O ye peoples,
And ye shall be broken in pieces,
And give ear, all ye of far countries:
HE comes
Bows from his armoured
Car, answers salute with salute
Bows across barrage of
Dark shirts, faces frozen
Above fixed bayonets
Make an uproar
(Smiling)
All ye of far countries
(Salute)
And ye shall be broken in pieces
The house-tops lie in the street
The pavements shudder beneath their
Burden the dead hurled
With the living
Broken in pieces
The smoke curls upward
broken
What is the noise of a city?
Wheels, horns, radios, voices
raised in anger, in laughter
Murmur of multitudes muffled mutter of traffic.
What are these noises?
The whine of a shell the split
Scream the ambulance sirens,
The groans of a thousand.
Give ear, all ye of far countries.
The house-walls clutter the street
Grins from an upper storey
flesh torn from the bone
The furniture, broken in pieces.
(The movie palace was crowded).
There are the subways for refuge
At the entrance you meet them
Women, big-bellied children, swollen with wind
Or they wander
beyond the city limits
In the corridors of the mines
you will find them asleep
The summer fruits are not gathered.
Give ear, all ye of far countries.
Where they prepare the table,
They spread the carpets,
They eat, they drink,
Where there are lights and singing
Wine of choice and a swing song
Lights on the burnished hair, flesh luminous as jewels,
Lights in the eyes that glaze
The throat shaken with laughter
Your slain are not slain with the sword
Neither are they dead in battle.
What will you do
In the desolation which shall come?
To whom will you flee for help?
And where will you leave your glory?
They shall bow down under the prisoners and
shall fall under the slain.
And those in the joyous city?
They shall come down from the house-tops
They shall go up from the streets
separately and alone
Who shared in the glory
Will look for their portion
and find it
To each his mouthful of malice
To each his fistful of hate.
Who heard the shouts behind shutters
Who heard the shouts and were silent
Will take what is given
Some to meet in the camps
over the filth of latrines
Some to meet by the wall
facing the guns
Some to meet in the pit
where the suicides are flung
Some never to meet, but to sit
In darkened chambers, alone
The sun hidden from them
The lamp at evening unlit
What passes for thought among them
Revolving with envy
About the fate of an exile
Watchman, what of the night?
The sun is hidden from us
The light of the moon is dimmed
But the pharos shines
at the air-port
The word is
ceiling unlimited
A clear night for bombing
And after
The cave, the abandoned mine
the subway crowded with sleepers
Darkness over the city
Darkness over the village
And over the pastures, darkness
Over the orchards and fields
Darkness over the vineyards.
Watchman, what of the night?
How does it pass in the trenches?
In the hospital and the prison?
What of the night of exile?
And those not slain with the sword,
Nor with the gun and the
Bayonet.
Those dead,
But not dead in battle.
The dead who are poisoned with power
The dead in the places of power
Who are buying and selling the nations
Dealers in houses and land and works and bread and munitions
Those dead, but not dead in battle
The dead who own the living.
To whom will they flee for help?
And where will they leave their glory?
The people are starving
The people are fed on lies
There is death in the pot
The poor are devoured by lack
the coffin is bought on credit
The rich are asking
Which mountains are free for skiing?
For sunning, what southern beaches?
The passports are ready, crisply
The letters of credit folded.
Billions for battleships
the contracts are quickly prepared
How much to rebuild
the laboratory in ruins?
O Attila! O Alexander!
The delightful city
is become a madhouse
The populous earth
is become a cemetery
Sargon also
Governed by thuggery
The dead against the living.
But the remnant
Who lie out in the fields
Or watch in the cities,
or wait
In the prisons,
or work
Where the oppressor is strong.
Those who refuse madness
Those who resist death
Those whose mouths are not stopped
By the guns
or the wails of the children
Whose hearts are not to be broken
Whose minds are not to be broken
Whose will is not to be broken
Go up to the house-top, Watchman
What of the night?