Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

With, Lullay, lullay, lyke a chylde,

Thou slepyst to long, thou art begylde.

My darlyng dere, my daysy floure,

Let me, quod he, ly in your lap.

Ly styll, quod she, my paramoure,

Ly styll hardely, and take a nap.

Hys hed was hevy, such was his hap,

All drowsy dremyng, dround in slepe,

That of hys love he toke no kepe,

With, Hey, lullay, &c.

With ba, ba, ba, and bas, bas, bas,

She cheryshed hym both cheke and chyn,

That he wyst never where he was;

He had forgoten all dedely syn.

He wantyd wyt her love to wyn;

He trusted her payment, and lost all hys pray:

She left hym slepyng, and stale away,

Wyth, Hey, lullay, &c.

The ryvers rowth, the waters wan;

She sparyd not to wete her fete;

She wadyd over, she found a man

That halsyd her hartely and kyst her swete:

Thus after her cold she cought a hete.

My lefe, she sayd, rowtyth in hys bed;

I wys he hath an hevy hed,

Wyth, Hey, lullay, &c.

What dremyst thou, drunchard, drousy pate!

Thy lust and lykyng is from the gone;

Thou blynkerd blowboll, thou wakyst to late,

Behold, thou lyeste, luggard, alone!

Well may thou sygh, well may thou grone,

To dele wyth her so cowardly:

I wys, powle hachet, she bleryd thyne I.

Merry Margaret,

As midsummer flower,

Gentle as a falcon

Or hawk of the tower:

With solace and gladness,

Much mirth and no madness,

All good and no badness;

So joyously,

So maidenly,

So womanly

Her demeaning

In every thing,

Far, far passing

That I can indite,

Or suffice to write

Of Merry Margaret

As midsummer flower,

Gentle as falcon

Or hawk of the tower.

As patient and still

And as full of good will

As fair Isaphill,

Coriander,

Sweet pomander,

Good Cassander,

Steadfast of thought,

Well made, well wrought,

Far may be sought

Ere that ye can find

So courteous, so kind

As Merry Margaret,

This midsummer flower,

Gentle as falcon

Or hawk of the tower.

Aye, beshrew you, by my fay,

These wanton clerks be nice alway,

Avaunt, avaunt, my popagay!

“What, will ye do nothing but play?”

Tilly vally straw, let be I say!

Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale!

With Mannerly Margery milk and Ale.

“By God, ye be a pretty pode,

And I love you an whole cartload”.

Straw, James Foder, ye play the fode,

I am no hackney for your rod:

Go watch a bull, your back is broad!

Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale!

With Mannerly Margery milk and ale.

Ywis ye deal uncourteously;

What, would ye frumple me? now fie!

What, and ye shall not be my pigsny?”

By Christ, ye shall not, no hardily:

I will not be japed bodily!

Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale!

With Mannerly Margery milk and ale.

“Walk forth your way, ye cost me naught;

Now have I found that I have sought:

The best cheap flesh that ever I bought”.

Yet, for his love that hath all wrought,

Wed me, or else I die for thought.

Gup, Christian Clout, your breath is stale!

With Mannerly Margery milk and ale!

Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale!

With Mannerly Margery milk and ale.

Womanhood, wanton, ye want:

Your meddling, mistress, is mannerless;

Plenty of ill, of goodness scant,

Ye rail at riot, reckless:

To praise your port it is needless;

For all your draff yet and your dregs,

As well borne as ye full oft time begs.

Why so coy and full of scorn?

Mine horse is sold, I ween, you say;

My new furrèd gown, when it is worn…

Put up your purse, ye shall not pay!

By crede, I trust to see the day,

As proud a pea-hen as ye spread,

Of me and other ye may have need!

Though angelic be your smiling,

Yet is your tongue an adder’s tail,

Full like a scorpion stinging

All those by whom ye have avail.

Good mistress Anne, there ye do shail:

What prate ye, pretty pigesnye?

I trust to ’quite you ere I die!

Your key is meet for every lock,

Your key is common and hangeth out;

Your key is ready, we need not knock,

Nor stand long wresting there about;

Of your door-gate ye have no doubt:

But one thing is, that ye be lewd:

Hold your tongue now, all beshrewd!

To mistress Anne, that farly sweet,

That wones at The Key in Thames Street.

Your ugly token

My mind hath broken

From worldly lust;

For I have discussed,

We are but dust

And die we must.

It is general

To be mortal;

I have well espied

No man may him hide

From Death hollow-eyed

With sinews wyderéd

With bones shyderéd,

With his worm-eaten maw

And his ghastly jaw

Gaping aside,

Naked of hide,

Neither flesh nor fell!

Then, by my counsel

Look that ye spell!

Well this gospel,

For whereso we dwell

Death will us quell

And with us mell!

For all our pampered paunches

There may no fraunchis!

Nor worldly bliss

Redeem us from this:

Our days be dated

To be checkmated

With draughtes of death

Stopping our breath;

Our eyen sinking,

Our bodies stinking,

Our gummes grinning,

Our soules brinning.

To whom, then, shall we sue

For to have rescue

But to sweet Jesu

On us then for to rue?

O goodly child

Of Mary mild

Then be our shield,

That we be not exiled

To the dyne dale

Of bootless bale

Nor to the lake

Of fiendes black.

But grant us grace

To see thy face

And to purchase

Thine heavenly place

And thy palace

Full of solace

Above the sky

That is so high,

Eternally

To behold and see

The Trinity.

Amen.