Ah, technical death metal, perhaps my favorite genre of metal… This song reminds me of why that is. It's just so...
I was gonna say "peppy" but I realize that I would be hunted down by all the metalheads of the world if I did... :P
Lets go with "ebullient" instead. Much better. ;S
Instruments fit pretty well into the genre. The singing is well, growling. Sure way to assure I don't understand a word. Hahaha. Well looking up the lyrics and having them along I can with some imagination make out the words.
Also, no rhyming? Whhhaaaat. :V
Some rule breaking, sorry... Pick one or do both if so inclined. They are both Carl Michael Bellmans "Fredmans Epistel no.80", second one is in English.
Fred Åkerström - Liksom En Herdinna
Translation…
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by Paul Britten Austin:
FREDMAN'S EPISTLE NO.80
Concerning Ulla Winblad's excursion to First Cottage just outside the Kattrump Tollgate
pastoral dedicated to Royal Secretary Kellgren
As festive a comely shepherdess
A garland of grasses weaves,
And kneels by the spring to garnish her dress,
Entwining wild roses' leaves;
Nor blends with clover, lilac and may
A sheen of pearls on midsummer day
In one far wreath of leafy spoils,
Whereo'er she so gracefully toils:
So journey'd my nymph to Flora's rout
In simple and gauzy veil,
When Mollberg one day invited her out
To First Cottage in the dale;
Beyond the barrier, heavenly spot,
Where crayfish scarlet seethe i'the pot,
And all Brunnsvikens billows play
In rippl'd and wavy array!
In bodice of nankeen, lightly laced,
Our Ulla her entry made;
Its wrinkles by airiest breezes displaced
Her kerchief with zephyrs played;
No more in curls her tresses were seen,
The Nymph her skirt too had taken in,
And to the eye it made appeal;
Nor show'd her fair shoe a white heel.
Mark how between fences all awry
The Cot to the lake descends;
To leftward, 'mid mosses and spruces so high,
The road its way roundly wends,
Where farmer heavy on stagering wheel
Makes haste to his homestead and evening meal,
And home at sundown safely slams
His gate on his chickens and lambs
Just there where the grassy Cot gives place
To porchway with spruce-twigs strewn
Our Ulla stepped lightly down from her chaise,
One Sunday at stroke of noon,
As Jove his thunder rumbled and roll'd
And Dand'ryd's churchbell evenly toll'd,
And on his heap the cock'rel crew,
And into the room swallows flew.
The beaker now 'gan its journeying,
And Mollberg he slid to the floor.
As Ulla's fair arm and glittering ring
Split ale on the dress she wore.
Then on the table she pounded an ace
And pull'd her skirts up over her face,
And goodwife then without ado
Must chalk up a dram to these two.
On window'd horizon a tawny horse
Upraises his mane to the sky,
As traces and wheelhubs loosen'd perforce,
In ev'ry direction fly;
with whinneying nostrils, loth to obey,
In rutting ardour he gallops away.
But Ulla prone in wifely spill
With Mollberg is snoring still.
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Martin Best - Pastroleale Epistle No 80