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September 20 “Los campanilleros”, Andalussian folk-song“Los campanilleros” is an Andalussian dearest song. Originally, “Los campanilleros” was a Christmass song, but soon it had other connotations due to some lines of the song. A campanillero (maybe could be translated as bell-player) is a person who plays with others religious songs with guitars, bells and other instruments. This is one of the most known versions: En los pueblos de mi Andalucía Pajarillos que vais por el campo, En la noche de la Nochebuena, A la puerta de un rico avariento Si supieras la entrada que tuvo In the villages of my Andalusia/ the campanilleros awake me/ at dawn/ and with their guitars make me cry./ I start to sing,/ and hearing me/ all the little birds/ that are in the branches go flying.// Little birds that go by the fields,/ follow the star, fly to Betlehem,/ for a little kid is waiting for you/ for he is the king of Heaven and earth.// In Christmass Eve/ under the stars and at dawn/ the sheepherds with their bells/ worship the now born Kid./ And with devotion.../ they go playing zambombas, tambourines,/ singing couples to God's Child.// To an old miser man's door/ came Jesuschrist and asked alms,/ and instead of give him alms, he bait the dogs he had./ But God wanted/ the dogs die at that moment/ and the old miser became poor.// If you knew the kind entry/ the King of Heaven had in Jerusalem,/ he didn't want cars nor buggy,/ but a rented little donkey./ He wanted to prove/ that the Heaven Holy Gates/ only can be open by the Holy Humility.
Jarcha (that is the name of a mozarabian poetic form) was an Andalussian folk group from Huelva. Was formed in 1972 by María Isabel Martín, Lola Bon, Antonio A. Ligero, Ángel Corpa, Crisanto Martín, Gabi Travé and Rafael Castizo, although many members were changing. Jarcha's music is Andalussian traditional songs, but with pop arranges. Jarcha also sung poems of Federico García Lorca, Rafael Alberti, Salvador Távora and Miguel Hernández. In his 1975 álbum, Andalucía vive (Andalusia is alive), Jarcha included this version of "Los campanilleros". En la puerta de un rico avariento y en lugar de darle la limosna los perros que había fue y se los echó. Pero quiso Dios que los perros de pronto murieran y el rico avariento pobre se quedó. Pajarillos que estáis en las ramas buscando el amor y la libertad, corre, ve y dile al hombre que quiero que venga a mi reja por la 'madrugá'. Y cuando le vi, una rosa de vivos colores corté de su tallo y a él se la di. En los campos de mi Andalucía los campanilleros en la 'madrugá' me despiertan con sus campanillas y con sus guitarras me hacen llorar. Me hacen llorar... Y al oírlo 'tos' los pajarillos que están en las ramas se echan a volar. To an old miser man's door/ came Jesuschrist and asked alms,/ and instead of give him alms, he bait the dogs he had./ But God wanted/ the dogs die at that moment/ and the old miser became poor.// Little birds that are at the branches/ looking for love and freedom,/ run and go to tell the man that I want/ him to come to my fence door at dawn./ And when I saw him,/ I cut a colorful rose from its stalk/ and I gave it to him.// In the fields of my Andalusia/ the campanilleros at dawn/ they awake me with their little bells/ and with their guitars make me cry./ They make me cry.../ And when all the little birds that are in the branches hear it/ take a fly.
En los campos de mi Andalucía Los gitanos que van por el monte, suplicando al amor, En la historia del mundo no ha habido que reza al andar a las flores In the fields of my Andalusia/ the campanilleros at dawn/ they awake me with their little bells/ and with their guitars I start to cry.// The gypsys that go by the mount/ singing and dancing at dawn/ of a thousand suns that make mature the wheat/ rotting the mourn of an old rebec// begging to love/ with the hands to the sky looking/ the coldness of the dew/ from a wise singer.// In the history of world hasn't been/ a nation's so clear cries,/ making the sign of cross with holy water/ the red hands of a patron saint// that pray as he walks to the flowers/ of a withered field/ loaded of hawthorns/ with bitter sting. Comments (4)
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