Ruth Crawford-Seeger: 2 Ricercare (The Lied and Art Song Texts Page: Texts and Translations to Lieder, mélodies, canzoni, and other classical vocal music)


Fast! Fast! 
One year has passed!
Dead! Dead! 
You will never be reborn!
Who said 
There will be a resurrection? 
Why didn't we see any of those gentlemen
Who were willing to take your places?
The real rneaning of "death" --
You knew it. 
Still you paid with your life for your class!
Sacrifice! 
That was real sacrifice!

Look at your enemies.
They are fishing,
Smiling, 
Murdering, 
As ever. 
Shameful! 
It is an eternal disgrace to us all. 

Before your death 
Did not millions promise --
To do "this" or "that"
lf you should die?
Now 
One year has passed. 
What about "this" and what about "that"?

Petitions?
Protests? 
Telegrams? 
Demonstrations?
Strikes? 
Oh! They may refire the cold ashes of our two martyrs. 
But they can never soften the murderer's heart! 
Tears?
Sighs? 
Complaints?
And the like? 
Oh! They may expect the embraces of your dear mothers, 
They can never get pardon from the blood-thirsty masters.

Have you ever seen sheep end pigs 
Being dragged to slaughter?
How pitifully they shriek! 
How terribly they tremblel 
Yet men enjoy their delicious flesh
Just the same! 
Sheep! Pigs! Foreigners! Workers!
Your sweat is fertile,
Your blood is sweet,
Your meat is fresh! 

Oh, Vanzetti!
You did say: 
"I wish to forgive some people for what they are now doing to me". 
Certainly, you can forgive them as you like, 
But you are the Wop, the fish peddler, the worker, 
And haven't anything in the bank.
lsn't it a great insult 
To say "forgive" to your honorable master? 

Oh, Sacco!
You did say: 
"Long live anarchy", 
But you should not forget, 
That when you climb up to heaven
You must use the ladder!

Oh Martyrs!
Dead! Dead! 
You are dead,
Never, never
To live again.
Fast! Fast! 
One year has passed!
But years and years, 
Years are piling up immortal bricks
Of your lofty monument.

Oh martyrs! 
Look at the autumn flowers:
They are dying!
Dying! Dying!
But 
The trees, the roots from which 
The flowers are [blooming]¹
Never, never die! 
When the spring comes 
We shall again see the pretty flowers
Blooming,
Perfuming, 
Saluting the warm sun, 
Wrestling with the mild wind 
and kissing the charming butterflies.

Oh martyrs! 
Dead, dead! You are dead!
But 
Your human tree and your human root
Are budding,
Blooming,
Growing! 

Listen to the war cries of your living brothers!
This is the incense
We are burning
To you.

View text without footnotes
Note: written in memory of the first anniversary of the martyr's death.
¹ Tsiang: "coming"

Input by John Versmoren

2. Chinaman, Laundryman

Language: English

Authorship

H. T. Tsiang

Daily Worker


"Chinaman"! 
"Laundryman"! 
Don't call me "man"! 
I am worse than a slave.

Wash! Wash!
Why can I wash away 
The dirt of others' clothes 
But not the hatred of my heart?
My skin is yellow, 
Does my yelow skin color the clothes?
Why do you pay me less
For the same work?
Clever boss!
You know 
How to scatter the seeds of hatred
Among your ignorant slaves. 

Iron! Iron! 
Why can I smooth away
The wrinkle 
Of others' dresses 
But not the miseries of my heart?
Why should I come to Arnerica
To wash clothes? 
Do you think "Chinamen" in China
Wear no dresses?

I came to America 
Three days after my marriage.
When can I see her again? 
Only the almighty "Dollar" knows! 

Dry! Dry! 
Why do clothes dry,
But not my tears?
I work 
Twelve hours a day,
He pays 
Fifteen dollars a week.
My boss says,
"Chinaman, 
Go back to China, 
If you don't feel satisfied!
There, 
Unlimited hours of toil: 
Two silver dollars a week,
If 
You can find a job."
Thank you, Boss, 
For you remind me.
I know 
Bosses are robbers everywhere!
Chinese boss says:
"You Chinaman,
Me Chinaman, 
Come work for me --
Work for your fellow countryman!
By the way, 
You 'Wong', me 'Wong' -- 
Do we not belong to same family?
Ha! ha! 
We are cousins!
O yes! 
You 'Hai Shan', me 'Hai Shan', 
Do we not come from same district?
O come work for me;
I will treat you better!"
GET away from here!
What is the difference, 
When you comea to exploit me?

"Chinaman"! 
"Laundryman"! 
Don't call me "Chinaman"!
Yes, I am a "Laundryman"!
The workingman! 
Don't call me "Chinaman"!
I am the Worldman! 
["The International Soviet
Shall be his human race!"]¹

"Chinaman"! 
"Laundryman"! 
All you workingmen!
Here is the brush
Made of [study]²
Here is the soap
Made of [action]³.
Let us all 
wash with the [brush]⁴!
Let us all 
Press with the iron!
Wash!
Brush! 
Dry!
Iron! 
Then we shall have
A clean world!