Song of the Peoples

Words: Anonymous
* Lord Erich Hlodowechssun
** Cyfrwys Llewyrch Gan Annibyniaeth in Sigridson
Tune: They'll Know We Are Christians by our Love
Source: Standing Song Stone Book

Oh, they sleep with their ponies and they very seldom wash,
Oh, they sleep with their ponies and they very seldom wash,
And they drink fermented mare's milk and they very often slosh.
And we'll know they are Mongols by the smell, by the smell.
Yes, we'll know they are Mongols by the smell.

Oh, they mount on their ponies and forth they do ride,
Oh, they mount on their ponies and forth they do ride,
And whenever they get upwind, the peasants choke and hide,
For they know they are Mongols by the smell, by the smell.
Yes, they know they are Mongols by the smell.

Oh, they sound like a landslide that is going in reverse,
And a trio of tone-deaf mules could hardly sound worse.
And we'll know they are Scotsmen by their songs...

Oh, they play on an instrument that makes a dead dog flee,
And just to hear their music makes a foeman bend his knee,
And we'll know they are Scotsmen by their songs...

Oh, they set sail for England and arrive south of France,
And they stomp out the floorboards and they think that it's a dance,
And we know they are Vikings cause they're dumb...

Oh, they love to loot cattle, and to rape wenches too,
But they sometimes get it backward and they don't know what to do,
And we know they are Vikings 'cause they're dumb...

Oh, they keep pigs in the kitchen and they eat with their knives,
And they take their entertainment in the sleaziest of dives,
And we'll know by their manners that they're Huns...

Oh, they sleep on the table or you'll find them beneath,
And whenever one gets married they will send a funeral wreath,
And we'll know by their manners they are Huns...

Oh, they drink beer and whiskey and they never sober up,
And they smell like rancid stills, and their breath could stop a dragon,
And we'll know they are Celtics by their booze...

Oh, they ferment all their shamrocks and they make some rivengut,
And if you take a real big drink, you'll wind up on your butt,
And we'll know they are Celtics by their booze...

Oh, they leap upon ladies and they very often miss,
And when ladies faint from their bad breath, they think it is their kiss,
And the Frenchmen all think that they're Don Juan...

They spend hours at the mirror, rehearsing all their "lines",
When their Lady yawns from boredom, it's from passion she repines,
And the Frenchmen all think that they're Don Juan...

Oh, they sit in the cafe eating garlic all the day,
And they surely keep the vampires and the other folk away,
And we'll know they're Italians by their breath...*

Oh, they walk thru the doorway and they tell you their names,
And the folk say "gesundheit" and it's always the same
No one else can pronounce it so they make it all a game,
And we'll know they are Welshmen by their speech...**

Oh, they write songs and lyrics, and they write epics too,
And when seen it's made wholly of "l"s and "y"s and "w's",
And we'll know they are Welshmen by their speech...**

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