Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

The Epitaph of Habbie Simpson

Who on his Dron bore bonny Flags

He made his Cheeks as red as Crimson,

And babbed when he blew his Bags.

Kilbarchan now may say alas!

For she hath lost her game and grace:

Both Trixie and the Maiden-trace

But what remeed;

For no man can supply his place

Hab Simpson`s dead,

Now who shal play the day it daws,

Or hunts-up when the Cock he craws;

Or who can for our Kirk-towns Cause

stand us instead?

On Bag-pipes new no body blaws,

Sen Habbi’s dead.

Or who shall cause our Shearers shear?

Who will bend up the Brags of weir?

Bring in the Bells, or good play Meir,

In time of need

Hab Simpson could what need you speir,

But now he’s dead.

So kindly to his Neighbours neist,

At Beltan and Saint Barchan’s Feast,

He blew and then held up his Breast,

As he were weid,

But now we need not him arreist;

For Habbie’s dead.

At Fairs he play’d before the Spear-men

All gayly graithed in their Gear-men

Steel Bonnets, Jacts and and Swords so clear then

Like any Bead,

Now who will play before such weir-men

Sen Habbie`s dead.

At Clark-plays when he wont to come

His pipe play’d trimly to the Drum:

Like Bikes of Bees he gart it bum,

And run`d his Reed.

Now all out pipers may sing dumb

Sen Habbie`s dead.

And at Horse-races many a day,

Before the Black, the Brown and Gray,

He gart his pipe when he did play,

Both skirl and skried:

Now all such pastim’s quite away

Sen Habbbie`s dead.

He counted was a wail’d wight Man,

And fiercely at Foot-baill he ran;

At every Game the gree he wan,

For pith and speed?

The like of Habbie was not then,

But now he’s dead.

And than beside his valiant Acts,

At Brydels he wan many placks

He babbed ay behind Folks Backs,

And shook his Head,

Now we want many merry Cracks,

Sen Habbie’s dead.

He was convoyer of the Bride,

With Kittock hanging at his side,

About the Kirk he thought a pride,

The Ring to lead?

But now she may go but a Guide?

For Habbie’s dead.

So well’s he keeped his Decorum,

And all the steps of Whig- meg-morum

He slew a Man, and wo’s me for him,

and bare the seed.

But yet the man wan Hame before him

and was not dead.

Ay when he play’d the Lasses leugh,

To see him toothless, old and teuch?

He wan his pipe beside Barheugh

Withoutten dread?

Which after wan him Gear enough

But now he’s dead.

Alas! for him my heart is sare,

For of his Springs I got a Share,

At every play, Race, Feast and Fair

But guile or Greed?

We ned not look for piping mair,

Sen Habbies’s dead.

Alake for evermare and wae!

To wha shall I whan drouthie gae?

Dool, sturt and sorrow will me slae

Without remeid,

For hardship; and alake a day!

Since Sanny’s dead.

O’er buffet-stools, and hassocks tumble,

how he gart the jutters jumble,

And glowren fow both reel and rumble,

And clour their head.

Now they may gape, and girn, and grumble,

Since Sanny’s dead.

And how he gart the carles clatter,

And blirten fow their bowspreets batter,

Laughen to see them pitter-patter,

Naivel and bleed?

He was a deadly fae to water,

But now he’s dead.

Wha’ll jaw ale on my drouthy tongue,

To cool the heat of light and lung?

Wha’ll bid me when the kafll-bell’s rung,

To board me speed?

Wha’ll set me by the barrel-bung,

Since Sanny’’s dead?

Wha’ll set me dribbling be the tap;

While winking I begin to Napp,

Then lay me down and well me happ,

And binn my head?

I need na think to get ae drap,

Since Sanny’s dead.

Well did the master-cook and he,

With giff-gaff courtesie agree,

While tears as fast as kitchen-fee

Drapt frae his head.

Alake a day! though kind to me,

Yet now he’s dead.

It very muckle did me please,

To see him howk the Holland cheese:

I kend the clinking o’ his kies

In time of need.

Alake a day! though kind to me,

Yet now he’s dead.

He was as stout as was his steel,

And gen ye’ll trow he cou’d fu’ well

At wapenshaws tlie younkers dreill,

And bra’ly lead,

Baith to the field and frae the field,

But now he’s dead.

When first I heard the woeful knell,

And dool-ding o’s passing bell,

It made me yelp, and yeul, and yell,

And skirl and skreed.

To pantrie-men I bid farewell,

Since Sanny’s dead.

Fast is he bunn, baith head and feet,

And wrapped in a winnen sheet:

Now cou’d I sit me down and greet,

But what’s the need?

Shou’d I like a bell’d-wadder bleet,

Since Sanny’s dead?

The chiel came in his room, is bauld;

Sare be his shins, and’s kail ay cauld;

Which gars us ay pray for the auld,

With book and beid.

Now Lord hae mercy on his saul,

For now he’s dead.