Down the Pub – by Christo Botev

09/01/2011 by Christopher Buxton

Heavy, my soul! Pour out the wine!
Get me so pissed, I can just ignore
The point you miss, idiot swine
Shame or glory – what’s it for?

Land of my birth, so soon forgot,
The shelter of my father’s eaves
And those who in my soul begot
A fighting spirit, true belief.

Let’s forget my needy folk,
My father’s grave, my mothers passion,
And those who squeeze us till we choke
And rob us in most noble fashion.

They bleed our hungry people cold
They rob them all so niggardly
Landlords and merchants just sigh for gold
Priests rip them off with liturgy.

Rob them, you unfeeling bastards!
Rob them, so they scarcely stand.
Soon they’ll lie defeated, shattered,
While their sons drink glass in hand

We drink, we sing our rebel yells,
Bite all oppressors in the arses!
Let’s break through these strangling walls!
To arms! Let’s grab the mountain passes

We scream but when we’re sober,
We forget our oaths and declamations
We fall silent and we simper
‘Fore the sacred martyrs of our nation

And the Tyrant’s power increases
Makes our land a filthy joke
Hangs, impales, flogs, fleeces,
Curses our enslavéd folk

Fill up again! And lift the weight
From my soul. Get me pissed
Sink all my sober thought
And soften up my manly fist

I want to drink to spite the foe
And to spite you too, you patriots,
I’m not your bosom pal you know,
And you…you are just idiots!

Translated by Christopher Buxton 2011