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Iris DeMent
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Not With Deserters
Not with deserters from the battle That tears my land do I belong, To their coarse praise I do not listen. They shall not have from me one song.
Poor exile, you are like a prisoner To me, or one upon the bed Of sickness. Dark your road, O wanderer, Of wormwood smacks your alien bread.
Find more lyrics at ※ Mojim.com Here, into smoking fires that blacken Our lives, the last of youth we throw, Who in the years behind us never Sought to evade a single blow.
We know that in the final reckoning No hour will need apology; No people in the world are prouder, More tearless, simpler, than are we. [1923]
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