Текст песни Streets of New York (Bagatelle) с переводом

I was 18 years old

When I went down to Dublin

With a fist full of money

And a cartload of dreams

Take your time

Said my father

Stop rushing like hell

And remember all is not

What it seems to be

For those fellows would cut you

For the coat on your back

Or the watch that you got

From your mother

So take care

My young bucko

And mind yourself well

And will you give this wee note

To my brother

At the time, Uncle Benjy

Was a police man in Brooklyn

And my father

The youngest

Looked after the farm

When a phone call from America

Said «Send the lad over»

And the old fella said

«Sure, it wouldn’t do any harm!

For I’d spent my life working

This dirty old ground

For a few pints of porter

And the smell of a pound

And sure maybe there’s something

You’ll learn

Or you’ll see

And you can bring it back home

Make it easy on me"

So I landed at Kennedy

And a big, yellow taxi

Carried me and my bags

Through the streets

And the rain

And my poor heart was thumping

Around with excitement

And I hardly even heard

What the driver was saying

We came in the short parkway

Through the flatlands in Brooklyn

To my uncle’s apartment

On East 53rd

I was feeling so happy

I was humming a song

And I sang

«You're as free as a bird»

Well, to shorten the story

What I found out that day

Was that Benjy

Got shot down

In an uptown foray

And while I was flying

My way to New York

Benjy was lying

In a cold, city morgue

So I phoned up the old fella

And told him the news

I could tell

He could hardly

Stand up in his shoes

And he wept, as he told me

«Go ahead with the plan»

And never forget

Be a proud Irish man

So I went up to Nellies

Beside Fordham Road

And I started to learn

About lifting the load

But the heaviest thing

That I carried that year

Was the bitter-sweet thoughts

Of my home-town

So dear

I went home that December

Because the old fella died

Had to borrow

The money

From Phil on the side

And all the bright flowers

And brass couldn’t hide

The poor wasted face

Of my father

I sold up the old farmyard

For what it was worth

And into my bag

Stuck a handful of earth

So I boarded a train

And got me a plane

And I found

Myself back

In the U.S. again

It’s been 22 years

Since I’ve set foot in Dublin

The kids know to use

The correct knife and fork

But I’ll never forget

The green grass

And the rivers

As I keep law and order

In the streets of New York

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