Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах (билингва)

I hate that drum’s discordant sound,

Parading round, and round, and round:

To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,

And lures from cities and from fields,

To sell their liberty for charms

Of tawdry lace and glitt’ring arms;

And when Ambition’s voice commands,

To fight and fall in foreign lands.

I hate that drum’s discordant sound,

Parading round, and round, and round:

To me it talks of ravaged plains,

And burning towns and ruin’d swains,

And mangled limbs, and dying groans,

And widow’s tears, and orphans moans,

And all that Misery’s hand bestows,

To fill a catalogue of woes.

Renown’d Britannia! lov’d parental land,

Regard thy welfare with a watchful eye;

Whene’er the weight of Want’s afflicting hand

Wakes o’er thy vales the Poor’s persuasive cry:

When Slaves in office Freemen’s rights withstand,

When Wealth enormous sets th’ Oppressor high,

And Bribes thy ductile Senators command;

Then mourn, for then thy Fate approacheth nigh.

Not from perfidious Gaul, or haughty Spain,

Nor all the neighbouring nations of the main,

Tho’ leagu’d in war tremendous round thy shore,

But from thyself, thy Ruin must proceed;

Nor boast thy Power, for know it is decreed,

Thy Freedom gone, thy Power shall be no more.