A CANZONA DI U 173

        1935 - Mieux qu'hier                        1936 - Toujours plus haut               1937 - Je veille                         1939

A CANZONA DI U 173

(Chantée par notre ami Vittini au Restaurant du Port et transcrite le 30-09-53 à Saïgon)

                                                   U dicesette di gnjungnu

                                                   Principiu questu lamentu

                                                   E racontu la disfatta

                                                   Di lu nostru regimentu.

                                                   E mai mi n’è scurderaghju

                                                   Di questu tristu momentu

                                                   Annant’a le ripe di l’Aisne

                                                   Eramu in posizione

                                                  Aviamu cunfianza

                                                   D’arrestà l’invasione

                                                   Diciamu a l’Alemani

                                                   Li demu la lezione.

                                                   Lu nove ghjungnu da mane

                                                   L’attacu s’è declenciatu

                                                   Da l’ufficiali alemani

                                                   Ghjera bellu priparatu

                                                   Ma senza lu tradimentu

                                                   L’Aisne un l’avianu passatu

                                                   Tiravanu di canone

                                                   E tiravanu di mitraglia

                                                   Seminavanu la morte

                                                   Per lu campu di battaglia

                                                   Per quelli campi di granu

                                                   Pigliava focu la paglia

                                                   Elli avianu li tanchi

                                                   Tiravanu lu so canone

                                                   Ma la più chi c’ ha culpitu

                                                   Stada è la so aviazione.

                                                   E stata guasi distrutta

                                                   A nostra divizione

                                                   Versu nov’ ore di sera

                                                   Un ordine è arrivatu

                                                   A tutti li battaglioni

                                                   Nè statu cuminicatu

                                                   Dicia « repliez-vous »

                                                   Chi l’Aisne l’hanu passatu

                                                    Lu Centu sittanta trè

                                                    E statu fermu a lu postu

                                                    E per difende la Francia

                                                    Tiravanu senza rimorsu.

                                                    Pudimu sempre gridà :

                                                    « Evviva lu sangue corsu »

                                                    Di u Centu sittanta trè

                                                    Nè pudimu esse fieri

                                                    Difaillanza un ci n’ è stadu

                                                    Eramu tutti sinceri

                                                    E quelli c’un so morti

                                                    So feriti o priggiuneri

                                                    Pudite fà un elogiu

                                                    A lu nostru regimentu

                                                    S’è battutu c’un curaggiu

                                                    Malgradu senz’ armamentu

                                                    E li facia difettu

                                                    Ancu lu cumandamentu

                                                    N’un lu canale di l’Aisne

                                                    C’è restatu più d’un Corsu

                                                    S’avessi da cuntà tuttu

                                                    Sarebbi longu u discorsu

                                                    Da li morti chi c’era

                                                    Lu fiume fallava rossu

                                                   Ma li gridi di vindetta

                                                    Traversanu li monti

                                                    E speru chi prestu prestu

                                                    Riguleremu li conti

                                                    Un l’avia da subisce

                                                    A Francia tutti st’affronti

                                                    Eranu belli sicuri

                                                    La Francia c’un l’Inghilterra

                                                    Un n’aviamu penseri

                                                    D’avè di perde la guerra

                                                    Ma c’era lu tradimentu

                                                    In mare, in aria e in terra.

                                                    Dite cusi a Musulinu

                                                    Ch’ha tantu pretenssione

                                                    S’ell’unn’è più che scimitu

                                                    Ch’ellu facia attenzione

                                                    Un l’aghjmu da gurbina

                                                    La pulenta di granone.

                                                    Un so si li so sullati

                                                    Avà so cusi sinceri

                                                    Aghju intesu ch’in diciottu

                                                    Unn’eranu tantu fieri

                                                    Sabianu ancu scapà

                                                    Fantacini e bersaglieri

                                                    Ne so ghjunti li Francesi

                                                    A para li Austriani

                                                    Avà per parà l'Inglesi 

                                                    Chiamatu hanu l’Alemani.

                                                    Marchianu sempre ‘nguadrati

                                                    Li sullati italiani

                                                    Qui finiscu lu mio foglio

                                                    Finiscu lu mio ghjurnale

                                                    Sperendu chi per l’Italia

                                                    Sera lu colpu fatale

                                                    C’un noi sempre averà

                                                    U rollu d’un carnavale

Pancrazi Pierre Paul di Petra di Verde

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