DER ZINGER VUN NOYT
(Mordecai Gebirtig)

Oy oremer narisher zinger,
Bist noch ir dain fach nit genit,
Du krichst nor in gvirishe hoifn,
Tsi hot dort an opklang dain lid?

Un vilst oif dain zingen mevinim,
Un gelt oich fardinen darbai?
Gei zuch zei in oreme heiflech,
Dort sing daine lidlech far zei.

Un zing zei dos lidl fun elent,
Di troirike lidl fun noit,
Fun finstere koitike shtiblech,
Vu s'huliet der malech fun toit.

Yo, zing zei di troirike lidlech,
Zei zainen geshafn far zei,
Dain lidele vet dort bagleitn
A hilchiker yomer geshrei


Poor foolish, misguided musician,
Don't you know where to sing and to play?
You hang round the rich people's houses,
To them you have nothing to say.

It's true, there the critics will hear you,
And money they'll pay for your song,
But leave them, and go to the poor folk,
To them does your music belong.

And sing them your songs of their sorrows,
You'll find your true audience here,
In the courtyards of dusty dark houses,
Where the angel of death hovers near.

For poor folk your songs were created,
Songs of trouble, of need so sore,
Songs that transform into music
The heartbroken cries of the poor.

Mordecai Gebirtig
English version by Elizabeth Block
(Note: mevinim is the plural of maven = critic, expert)