Lirik Lagu The Ballad Of Ira Hayes - Bob Dylan
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Gather round me people, and a story I will tellAbout a brave young Indian you should remember wellFrom the tribe of Pima Indians, a proud and a peaceful bandThey farmed the Phoenix valley in Arizona landDown their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushedTill the white man stole their water rights and the running water hushedNow Ira's folks were hungry, and their farms grew crops of weedsBut when war came, he volunteered and forgot the white man's greed.
Call him drunken Ira HayesHe won't answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking IndianOr the Marine who went to warYes, call him drunken Ira HayesHe won't answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking IndianOr the Marine who went to war.
They started up Iwo Jima hill, two hundred and fifty menBut only twenty-seven lived to walk back down that hill againAnd when the fight was over and Old Glory raisedOne of the men who held it high was the Indian, Ira Hayes.
Call him drunken Ira HayesHe won't answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking IndianOr the Marine who went to warCall him drunken Ira HayesHe won't answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking IndianOr the Marine who went to war.
Ira returned a hero, celebrated throughout the landHe was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his handBut he was just a Pima Indian - no money, no crops, no chance -And at home nobody cared what Ira'd done, and when do the Indians dance?
Call him drunken Ira HayesHe won't answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking IndianOr the Marine who went to warCall him drunken Ira HayesHe won't answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking IndianOr the Marine who went to war.
Then Ira started drinking hard, jail was often his homeThey let him raise the flag there and lower it like you'd throw a dog a boneHe died drunk early one morning, alone in the land he'd fought to saveTwo inches of water in a lo
Call him drunken Ira HayesHe won't answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking IndianOr the Marine who went to warYes, call him drunken Ira HayesHe won't answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking IndianOr the Marine who went to war.
They started up Iwo Jima hill, two hundred and fifty menBut only twenty-seven lived to walk back down that hill againAnd when the fight was over and Old Glory raisedOne of the men who held it high was the Indian, Ira Hayes.
Call him drunken Ira HayesHe won't answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking IndianOr the Marine who went to warCall him drunken Ira HayesHe won't answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking IndianOr the Marine who went to war.
Ira returned a hero, celebrated throughout the landHe was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his handBut he was just a Pima Indian - no money, no crops, no chance -And at home nobody cared what Ira'd done, and when do the Indians dance?
Call him drunken Ira HayesHe won't answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking IndianOr the Marine who went to warCall him drunken Ira HayesHe won't answer anymoreNot the whiskey-drinking IndianOr the Marine who went to war.
Then Ira started drinking hard, jail was often his homeThey let him raise the flag there and lower it like you'd throw a dog a boneHe died drunk early one morning, alone in the land he'd fought to saveTwo inches of water in a lo
