Post by Swegrizz on Mar 4, 2010 3:25:57 GMT -5
www.youtube.com/watch?v=c57RfNtlOzg
thats a good song from astrid lindgren
.
you wont understand it but damn.. that song brings up 1000 of memories from when i was a kid
.. almost making my cry 
. but be a man .
Lyrc: not the best, i used google translate.
I am poor farmhand, but I live anyway.
Days come and go, while I was on the knuckles.
Harrows, wounds and plowing, suede, digging and carrying.
Go back my oxen, whistling and shouting swear.
I am a poor peasant boy, and I chew my snuff.
And when lörda'n will, I want to get drunk.
Then, when I been lively, I would grapple and fight.
Rest of a girl, I would also, of course.
Then, it will sönda'n, and then to our priest,
me to the church, but when I sleep most.
The priest may well sleep through Monday, but,
for a poor farmhand, knoget begins again.
So goes the whole week, all days and years.
I walk with my scythe, and I plow and sow.
I drive my oxen and my Kozolec my hay.
Harrows gnor and slaves, and eventually I'll die.
Standing there, poor farmhand near the gate of heaven.
A bit scared and sorry for the sins I have done.
You should not drink, held with girls and fighting.
Lord God in Heaven, is well satisfied of course.
But when the Lord says: poor peasant boy, come here.
I have seen your effort and your eternal toil.
Therefore, poor farm hand, you are welcome here.
Therefore, poor farmhand, You will be me when.
Oh, my, poor peasant boy is so quiet before God.
And then he dresses for me the most snow-white plumage.
Now you, saith the Lord, your work is completed.
Now You, poor farmhand, now may you rest.
thats a good song from astrid lindgren
.you wont understand it but damn.. that song brings up 1000 of memories from when i was a kid
.. almost making my cry 
. but be a man .Lyrc: not the best, i used google translate
.I am poor farmhand, but I live anyway.
Days come and go, while I was on the knuckles.
Harrows, wounds and plowing, suede, digging and carrying.
Go back my oxen, whistling and shouting swear.
I am a poor peasant boy, and I chew my snuff.
And when lörda'n will, I want to get drunk.
Then, when I been lively, I would grapple and fight.
Rest of a girl, I would also, of course.
Then, it will sönda'n, and then to our priest,
me to the church, but when I sleep most.
The priest may well sleep through Monday, but,
for a poor farmhand, knoget begins again.
So goes the whole week, all days and years.
I walk with my scythe, and I plow and sow.
I drive my oxen and my Kozolec my hay.
Harrows gnor and slaves, and eventually I'll die.
Standing there, poor farmhand near the gate of heaven.
A bit scared and sorry for the sins I have done.
You should not drink, held with girls and fighting.
Lord God in Heaven, is well satisfied of course.
But when the Lord says: poor peasant boy, come here.
I have seen your effort and your eternal toil.
Therefore, poor farm hand, you are welcome here.
Therefore, poor farmhand, You will be me when.
Oh, my, poor peasant boy is so quiet before God.
And then he dresses for me the most snow-white plumage.
Now you, saith the Lord, your work is completed.
Now You, poor farmhand, now may you rest.
