Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Thousands Are Sailing, artist - The Pogues. Album song Original Album Series, in the genre Фолк-рок
Date of issue: 03.11.2011
Record label: Warner Music UK
Song language: English
Thousands Are Sailing |
The island it is silent now |
But the ghosts still haunt the waves |
And the torch lights up a famished man |
Who fortune could not save |
Did you work upon the railroad |
Did you rid the streets of crime |
Were your dollars from the white house |
Were they from the five and dime |
Did the old songs taunt or cheer you |
And did they still make you cry |
Did you count the months and years |
Or did your teardrops quickly dry |
Ah, no, says he, 'twas not to be On a coffin ship I came here |
And I never even got so far |
That they could change my name |
Thousands are sailing |
Across the western ocean |
To a land of opportunity |
That some of them will never see |
Fortune prevailing |
Across the western ocean |
Their bellies full |
Their spirits free |
They’ll break the chains of poverty |
And they’ll dance |
In Manhattan’s desert twilight |
In the death of afternoon |
We stepped hand in hand on Broadway |
Like the first man on the moon |
And «The Blackbird"broke the silence |
As you whistled it so sweet |
And in Brendan Behan’s footsteps |
I danced up and down the street |
Then we said goodnight to Broadway |
Giving it our best regards |
Tipped our hats to Mister Cohen |
Dear old Times Square’s favorite bard |
Then we raised a glass to JFK |
And a dozen more besides |
When I got back to my empty room |
I suppose I must have cried |
Thousands are sailing |
Again across the ocean |
Where the hand of opportunity |
Draws tickets in a lottery |
Postcards we’re mailing |
Of sky-blue skies and oceans |
From rooms the daylight never sees |
Where lights don’t glow on Christmas trees |
But we dance to the music |
And we dance |
Thousands are sailing |
Across the western ocean |
Where the hand of opportunity |
Draws tickets in a lottery |
Where e’er we go, we celebrate |
The land that makes us refugees |
From fear of Priests with empty plates |
From guilt and weeping effigies |
And we dance |