Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

Now mirk December’s dowie face

Glowrs owr the rigs wi’ sour grimace,

While, thro’ his minimum o’ space,

The bleer-ey’d sun,

Wi’ blinkin’ light, and stealing pace,

His race doth run.

Frae naked groves nae birdie sings,

To shepherd’s pipe nae hillock rings,

The breeze nae od’rous flavour brings

Frae Borean cave,

An’ dwynin’ Nature droops her wings,

Wi’ visage grave.

Mankind but scanty pleasure glean

Frae snawy hill or barren plain,

Whan Winter, ’midst his nipping train,

Wi’ frozen spear,

Sends drift owr a’ his bleak domain,

And guides the weir.

Auld Reikie! thou’rt the canty hole,

A bield for mony a cauldrife soul,

Wha snugly at thine ingle loll,

Baith warm and couth;

While round they gar the bicker roll,

To weet their mouth.

When merry Yule-day comes, I trow,

You’ll scantlins fin’ a hungry mou;

Sma’ are our cares, our stamacks fou

O’ gusty gear,

An’ kickshaws, strangers to our view

Sin’ fairn-year.

Ye browster wives, now busk ye bra’,

An’ fling your sorrows far awa’;

Then come an’ gie’s the tither blaw

O’ reaming ale,

Mair precious than the well o’ Spa,

Our hearts to heal.

Then, tho’ at odds wi’ a’ the warl’,

Amang oursels we’ll never quarrel;

Tho’ Discord gie a cankar’d snarl

To spoil our glee,

As lang’s there’s pith into the barrel

We’ll drink an’ ’gree.

Fidlers, your pins in temper fix,

And rozet weel your fiddle-sticks,

But banish vile Italian tricks

Frae out your quorum,

Nor fortes wi’ pianos mix,

Gie’s Tullochgorum.

For nought can cheer the heart sae weil

As can a canty Highland reel,

It even vivifies the heel

To skip and dance:

Lifeless is he wha canna feel

Its influence.

Let mirth abound, let social cheer

Invest the dawning of the year;

Let blithesome innocence appear

To crown our joy,

Nor envy, wi’ sarcastic sneer,

Our bliss destroy.

And thou, great god of Aqua Vitae!

Wha sways the empire o’ this city,

When fou we’re sometimes capernoity,

Be thou prepar’d

To hedge us frae that black banditti,

The City-Guard.

On Scotia’s plains, in days of yore,

When lads and lasses tartan wore,

Saft Music rang on ilka shore,

In hamely weid;

But Harmony is now no more,

And Music dead.

Round her the feather’d choir would wing,

Sae bonnily she wont to sing,

And sleely wake the sleeping string,

Their sang to lead,

Sweet as the zephyrs o’ the Spring;

But now she’s dead.

Mourn, ilka nymph and ilka swain,

Ilk sunny hill and dowie glen;

Let weeping streams and Naiads drain

Their fountain head;

Let Echo swell the dolefu’ strain,

Sin’ Music’s dead.

Whan the saft vernal breezes ca’,

The grey-hair’d Winter fogs awa’,

Naebody than is heard to blaw,

Near hill or mead,

On chaunter, or on aiten straw,

Sin’ Music’s dead.

Nae lasses now, on summer days,

Will lilt at bleachin’ o’ their claes;

Nae herds on Yarrow’s bonny braes,

Or banks o’ Tweed,

Delight to chant their hamely lays,

Sin’ Music’s dead.

At glomin’ now the bagpipe’s dumb,

Whan weary owsen hameward come;

Sae sweetly as it wont to bum,

An’ pibrachs skreed;

We never hear its warlike hum;

For Music’s dead.

Macgibbon’s gane! ah! waes my heart!

The man in Music maist expert,

Wha could sweet melody impart,

An’ tune the reed,

Wi’ sic a slee an’ pawky art;

But now he’s dead.

Ilk carline now may grunt an’ grane,

Ilk bonny lassie mak great mane,

Sin’ he’s awa’, I trow there’s nane

Can fill his stead;

The blythest sangster on the plain!

Alack he’s dead!

Now foreign sonnets bear the gree,

An’ crabbit queer variety

O’ sounds fresh sprung frae Italy,

A bastard breed!

Unlike that saft-tongu’d Melody

Whilk now lies dead.

Could lavrocks, at the dawnin’ day,

Could linties, chirmin’ frae the spray,

Or todlin’ burns that smoothly play

Owr gowden bed,

Compare wi’ Birks o’ Invermay?

But now they’re dead.

O Scotland! that could ance afford

To bang the pith o’ Roman sword,

Winna your sons, wi’ joint accord,

To battle speed,

And fight till Music be restor’d,

Whilk now lies dead?

O N auld worm-eaten skelf, in cellar dunk,

Whare hearty benders synd their drouthy trunk,

Twa chappin bottles, pang’d wi’ liquor fu’,

Brandy the tane, the tither Whisky blue,

Grew canker’d; for the twa were het within,

An’ het-skin’d fock to flyting soon begin;

The Frenchman fizz’d, and first wad fit the field,

While paughty Scotsman scorn’d to beenge or yield.

Black be your fa! ye cottar loun mislear’d,

Blawn by the Porters, Chairman, City-Guard;

Hae ye na breeding, that you cock your nose

Against my sweetly gusted cordial dose,

Ive’ been near pauky courts, and aften there

Hae ca’d hystericks frae the dowy fair;

And courtiers aft gaed greening for my smack,

To gar them bauldly glour, and gashly crack.

The priest, to bang mishanters black and cares,

Has sought me in his closet for his prayers.

What tig then takes the fates, that they can thole

Thrawart to fix me i’ this weary hole,

Sair fash’d wi’ din, wi’ darkness, and wi’ stinks,

Whare cheery day-light thro’ the mirk ne’er blinks.

But ye maun be content, and maunna rue,

Tho’ erst ye’ve bizz’d in bonny madam’s mou,

Wi’ thoughts like thae your heart may sairly dunt,

The warld’s now change, its nae like use and wont;

For here, wae’s me! there’s nouther lord nor laird

Come to get heartscad frae their stamack skair’d;

Nae mair your courtier louns will shaw their face,

For they glour eiry at a friend’s disgrace;

But heeze your heart up — Whan at court you hear

The patriot’s thrapple wat wi’ reaming beer;

Whan chairman, weary wi’ his daily gain,

Can synd his whistle wi’ the clear champaign;

Be hopefu’, for the time will soon row round.

Whan you’ll nae langer dwall beneath the ground.

Wanwordy gowk! did I sae aften shine

Wi’ gowden glister thro’ the chrystal fine,

To thole your taunts, that seenil hae been seen

Awa frae luggie, quegh, or truncher treem;

Gif honour wad but lat, a challenge shou’d

Twine ye o’ Highland tongue and Highland blude;

Wi’ cairds like thee I scorn to file my thumb,

For gentle spirits gentle breeding doom.

Truly I think it right you get your alms,

Your high heart humbled amang common drams:

Braw days for you, whan fools, newfangle fain,

Like ither countries better than their ain;

For there ye never saw sic chancy days,

Sic balls, assemblies, operas, or plays;

Hame-o’er langsyne you hae been blythe to pack

Your a’ upon a sarkless soldier’s back;

For you thir lads, as weel-lear’d trav’llers tell,

Had sell’d their sarks, gin sarks they’d had to sell.

But worth gets poortith an’ black burning shame,

To daunt and drivel out a life at hame.

Alake! the by-word’s owr weel kent throughout;

" Prophets at hame are held in nae repute; "

Sae fair’st wi’ me, tho’ I can heat the skin,

And set the saul upo’ a mirry pin,

Yet I am hameil, there’s the sour mischance!

I’m na frae Turkey, Italy, or France;

For now our gentles gabs are grown sae nice,

At thee they toot, an’ never spear my price:

Witness — for thee they height their tenants rent,

And fill their lands wi’ poortith, discontent;

Gar them o’er seas for cheaper mailins hunt,

An’ leave their ain as bare’s the Cairn-o’-mount.

Tho’ lairds tak toothfu’s o’ my wamring sap,

This dwines not tenants gear, nor cows their crap;

For love to you there’s mony a tenant gaes

Bare-ars’d and barefoot o’er the Highland braes:

For you nae mair the thrifty gudewife sees

Her lasses kirn, or birze the dainty cheese;

Crummie nae mair for Jenny’s hand will crune,

Wi’ milkness dreeping frae her teats adown:

For you owr ear the ox his fate partakes,

And fa’s a victim to the bluidy aix.

Wha is’t that gars the greedy banker prieve

The maiden’s tocher, but the maiden’s leave:

By you when spulzied o’ her charming pose,

She tholes in turn the taunt o’ cauldrife joes;

Wi’ skelps like this fock sit but seenil down

To wether-gammon or howtowdy brown;

Sair dung wi’ dule, and fley’d for coming debt,

They gar their mou’-bits wi’ their incomes met,

Content enough gif they hae wherewithal

Scrimply to tack their body and their saul.

Frae some poor poet, o’er as poor a pot,

Ye’ve lear’d to crack sae crouse, ye haveril Scot,

Or burgher politician, that embrues

His tongue in thee, and reads the claiking news;

But waes heart for you! that for ay maun dwell

In poet’s garret, or in chairman’s cell,

While I shall yet on bein-clad tables stand,

Bouden wi’ a’ the daintiths o’ the land.

Troth I hae been ere now the poet’s flame,

And heez’d his sangs to mony blythsome theme,

Wha was’t gar’d A LLIE ’s chaunter chirm fu’ clear,

Life to the saul, and music to the ear?

Nae stream but kens, and can repeat the lay

To shepherds streekit on the simmer-brae,

Wha to their whistle wi’ the lav’rock bang,

To wauken flocks the rural fields amang.

Bran. But here’s the browster-wife, and she can tell

Wha’s win the day, and wha shou’d wear the bell;

Hae done your din, an’ let her judgement join

In final verdict ’twixt your plea and mine.

In days o’ yore I cou’d my living prize,

Nor fash’d wi’ dolefu’ gaugers or excise;

But now-a-days we’re blyth to lear the thrift

Our heads ’boon licence and excise to lift;

Inlakes o’ Brandy we can soon supply

By Whisky tinctur’d wi’ the saffron’s dye.

Will you your breeding threep, ye mongrel loun!

Frae hame-bred liquor dy’d to colour brown?

So flunky braw, whan drest in maister’s claise,

Struts to Auld Reikie’s cross on sunny days,

Till some auld comrade, ablins out o’ place,

Near the vain up-start shaws his meagre face;

Bumbaz’d he loups frae sight, and jooks his ken,

Fley’d to be seen amang the tassel’d train.

O’ A ’ the waters that can hobble

A fishing yole or sa’mon coble,

An’ can reward the fisher’s trouble,

Or south or north,

There’s nane sae spacious an’ sae noble

As Frith o’ Forth.

In her the skate an’ codlin sail,

The eel fu’ souple wags her tail,

Wi’ herrin, fleuk, and mackarel,

An’ whitins dainty:

Their spindle-shanks the labsters trail,

Wi’ partans plenty.

Auld Reikie’s sons blyth faces wear;

September’s merry month is near,

That brings in Neptune’s caller cheer,

New oysters fresh;

The halesomest and nicest gear

O’ fish or flesh.

O! then we needna gie a plack

For dand’ring mountebank or quack,

Wha o’ their drugs sae baldly crack,

An’ spread sic notions,

As gar their feckless patients tak

Their stinkin’ potions.

Come prie, frail man! for gin thou art sick,

The oyster is a rare cathartic,

As ever doctor patient gart lick

To cure his ails;

Whether you hae the head or heart ake,

It ay prevails.

Ye tiplers open a’ your poses,

Ye wha are fash’d wi’ pluky hoses,

Fling owr your craig sufficient doses,

You’ll thole a hunder,

To fleg awa’ your simmer roses,

An’ naething under.

Whan big as burns the gutters rin,

Gin ye hae catcht a droukit skin,

To Lucky Middlemist’s loup in,

An’ sit fu’ snug

Owr oysters and a dram o’ gin,

Or haddock lug.

Whan auld Saunt Giles, at aught o’clock

Gars merchant lowns their shopies lock,

There we adjourn wi’ hearty fock

To birle our bodles,

An’ get wharewi’ to crack our joke,

An’ clear our noddles.

Whan Phœbus did his winnocks steek,

How aften at that ingle cheek

Did I my frosty fingers beek,

An’ prie gude fare!

I trow there was na hame to seek

Whan steghin there.

While glakit fools, owr rife o’ cash,

Pamper their wames wi’ fousom trash,

I think a chiel may gayly pass;

He’s nae ill boden

That gusts his gab wi’ oyster sauce,

An’ hen well sodden,

At Musselbrough, an’ eke Newhaven,

The fisher wives will get top livin,

When lads gang out on Sunday’s even

To treat their joes,

An’ tak o’ fat pandores a priven,

Or mussel brose.

Then sometimes, ere they flit their doup,

They’ll ablins a’ their siller coup

For liquor clear frae cutty stoup,

To weet their wizzen,

An’ swallow owr a dainty soup,

For fear they gizzen.

A’ ye wha canna staun sae sicker,

Whan twice you’ve toom’d the big-ars’d bicker,

Mix caller oysters wi’ your liquor,

An’ I’m your debtor,

If greedy priest or drouthy vicar

Will thole it better.

Ye wha are fain to hae your name

Wrote in the bonny book of fame,

Let merit nae pretension claim

To laurel’d wreath,

But hap ye weel, baith back and wame,

In gude Braid Claith.

He that some ells o’ this may fa,

An’ slae-black hat on pow like snaw,

Bids bauld to bear the gree awa’,

Wi’ a’ this graith,

Whan bienly clad wi’ shell fu’ braw

O’ gude Braid Claith.

Waesuck for him wha has na fek o’t!

For he’s a gowk they’re sure to geck at,

A chiel that ne’er will be respekit

While he draws breath,

Till his four quarters are bedeckit

Wi’ gude Braid Claith.

On Sabbath-days the barber spark,

When he has done wi’ scrapin wark,

Wi’ siller broachie in his sark,

Gangs trigly, faith!

Or to the meadow, or the park,

In gude Braid Claith.

Weel might ye trow, to see them there,

That they to shave your haffits bare,

Or curl an’ sleek a pickly hair,

Wou’d be right laith,

Whan pacing wi’ a gawsy air

In gude Braid Claith.

If only mettl’d stirrah green

For favour frae a lady’s ein,

He maunna care for being seen

Before he sheath

His body in a scabbard clean

O’ gude Braid Claith.

For, gin he come wi’ coat threadbare,

A feg for him she winna care,

But crook her bonny mou’ fu’ sair,

And scald him baith.

Wooers shou’d ay their travel spare

Without Braid Claith.

Braid Claith lends fock an unco heese,

Makes mony kail-worms butterflies,

Gies mony a doctor his degrees

For little skaith:

In short, you may be what you please

Wi’ gude Braid Claith.

For thof ye had as wise a snout on

As Shakespeare or Sir Isaac Newton,

Your judgment fouk wou’d hae a doubt on,

I’ll tak my aith,

Till they cou’d see ye wi’ a suit on

O’ gude Braid Claith.

In July month, ae bonny morn,

Whan Nature’s rokelay green

Was spread o’er ilka rigg o’ corn

To charm our roving een;

Glouring about I saw a quean,

The fairest ’neath the lift;

Her een were o’ the siller sheen,

Her skin like snawy drift,

Sae white that day.

Quoth she, “I ferly unco sair,

That ye sud musand gae,

Ye wha hae sung o’ Hallow-fair,

“Her winter pranks and plays;

Whan on Leith-sands the racers rare,

Wi’ jockey louns are met,

Their orro pennies there to ware,

And drown themsel’s in debt

Fu’ deep that day”.

An wha are ye my winsome dear,

That takes the gate sae early?

Whare do ye win, gin ane may spear,

For I right meikle ferly,

That sic braw buskit laughing lass

Thir bonny blinks shou’d gie,

An’ loup like Hebe o’er the grass,

As wanton and as free

Frae dule this day?

“I dwall among the caller springs

That weet the Land o’ Cakes,

And aften tune my canty strings

At bridals and late-wakes.

They ca’ me Mirth; Ine’er was kend

To grumble or look sour,

But blythe wad be a lift to lend,

Gin ye wad sey my pow’r

An’ pith this day”.

A bargain be’t, and, by my fegs,

Gif ye will be my mate,

Wi’ you I’ll screw the cherry pegs;

Ye shanna find me blate;

We’ll reel and ramble through the sands,

An’ jeer wi’ a’ we meet;

Nor hip the daft an’ gleesome bands

That fill Edina’s street

Sae thrang this day.

Ere servant maids had wont to rise

To seeth the breakfast kettle,

Ilk dame her brawest ribbons tries,

To put her on her mettle,

Wi’ wiles some silly chiel to trap

(An’ troth he’s fain to get her,)

But she’ll craw kniefly in his crap,

Whan, wow! he canna flit her

Frae hame that day.

Now mony a sca’d and bare-ars’d lown

Rise early to their wark,

Eneugh to fley a muckle town,

Wi’ dinsome squeel an’ bark:

“Here is the true an’ faithfu’ list

O’ noblemen an’ horses;

Their eild, their weight, their height, their grist,

That rin for plates or purses

Fu’ fleet this day”.

To whisky plooks that brunt for wooks

On town-guard soldiers faces,

Their barber bauld his whittle crooks

An’ scrapes them for the races:

Their stumps erst us’d to filipegs,

Are dight in spatterdashes,

Whase barkent hides scarce fend their legs

Frae weet an’ weary plashes

O’ dirt that day.

“Come, hafe a care” (the Captain cries),

“On guns your bagnets thraw;

Now mind your manual exercise,

And marsh down raw by raw”.

And as they march he’ll glowr about,

Tent a’ their cuts and scars;

‘Mang them fell mony a gausy snout

Has gusht in birth-day wars,

Wi’ blude that day.

Her nanesel maun be carefu’ now,

Nor maun she be misleard,

Sin baxter lads hae seal’d a vow

To skelp an’ clout the guard;

I’m sure Auld Reikie kens o’ nane

That would be sorry at it,

Tho’ they should dearly pay the kane,

An’ get their tails weel sautit

An’ sair thir days.

The tinkler billies i’ the Bow

Are now less eident clinking,

As langs their pith or siller dow,

They’re daffin and they’re drinking.

Bedown Leith-walk what bourochs reel

O’ ilka trade and station,

That gar their wives an’ childer feel

Toom wames for their libation

O’ drink thir days.

The browster wives thegither harl

A’ trash that they can fa’ on;

They rake the grunds o’ ilka barrel,

To profit by the lawen:

For weel wat they a skin leal het

For drinking needs nae hire;

At drumly gear they tak nae pet;

Foul water slockens fire,

And druth thir days.

They say ill ale has been the deid

O’ mony a beirdly lown;

Then dinna gape like gleds wi’ greed

To sweel hail bickers down;

Gin Lord send mony ane the morn,

They’ll ban fu’ sair the time

That e’er they toutit aff the horn,

Which wambles thro’ their wame

Wi’ pain that day.

The Buchan bodies thro’ the beech

Their bunch o’ Findrums cry,

An’ skirl out baul’, in Norland speech,

“Guid speldings fa’ will buy?”

An’, by my saul, they’re nae wrang gear

To gust a stirrah’s mow;

Weel staw’d wi’ them he’ll never spear

The price o’ being fu’

Wi’ drink that day.

Now wyly wights at rowly powl,

An’ flingan’ o’ the dice,

Here break the banes o’ mony a soul

W’ fa’s upo’ the ice:

At first the gate seems fair an’ straught

Sae they had fairly till her;

But wow! in spite o’ a’ their maught,

They’re rookit o’ their siller

An’ gowd that day.

Around where’er you fling your een,

The haiks like wind are scourin’;

Some chaises honest folk contain,

An’ some hae mony a whore in;

Wi’ rose and lilly, red and white,

They gie themselves sic fit airs,

Like Dian they will seem perfite;

But it’s nae gowd that glitters

Wi’ them thir days.

The lion here wi’ open paw,

May cleek in mony hunder,

Wha geck at Scotland and her law,

His wyly talons under;

For ken, tho’ Jamie’s laws are auld,

(Thanks to the wise recorder!)

His lion yet roars loud and bauld,

To had the whigs in order

Sae prime this day.

To town-guard drum, of clangour clear,

Baith men and steeds are raingit;

Some liv’ries red or yellow wear,

And some are tartan spraingit;

And now the red, the blue e’en-now,

Bids fairest for the market;

But, ere the sport be done, I trow

Their skins are gayly yarkit

And peel’d thir days.

Siclike in Pantheon debates,

Whan twa chiels hae a pingle;

E’en now some coulie gets his aits,

An’ dirt wi’ words they mingle;

Till up loups he wi’ diction fu’,

There’s lang and dreech contesting;

For now they’re near the point in view,

Now ten miles frae the question

In hand that night.

The races o’er, they hale the dools

Wi’ drink o’ a’ kin-kind;

Great feck gae hirpling hame like fools,

The cripple lead the blind.

May ne’er the canker o’ the drink

E’er mak our spirits thrawart,

’Case we git wharewitha’ to wink

Wi’ een as blue’s a blawart

Wi’ straiks thir days!

I sing the day sae aften sung,

Wi’ which our lugs hae yearly rung,

In whase loud praise the Muse has dung

A’ kind o’ print;

But wow! the limmer’s fairly flung;

There’s naithing in’t.

I’m fain to think the joy’s the same

In London town as here at hame,

Whare fouk o’ ilka age and name,

Baith blind an’ cripple,

Forgather aft, O fy for shame!

To drink an’ tipple.

O Muse, be kind, an’ dinna fash us

To flee awa’ beyont Parnassus,

Nor seek for Helicon to wash us,

That heath’nish spring;

Wi’ Highland whisky scour our hawses,

An’ gar us sing.

Begin then, dame, ye’ve drunk your fill,

You woudna hae the tither gill?

You’ll trust me, mair would do you ill,

An’ ding you doitet:

Troth ’twould be sair against my will

To hae the wyte o’t.

Sing then, how, on the fourth of June,

Our bells screed aff a loyal tune,

Our ancient castle shoots at noon,

Wi’ flag-staff buskit,

Frae which the soger blades come down

To cock their musket.

Oh willawins! Mons Meg, for you,

’Twas firing crack’t thy muckle mou;

What black mishanter gart ye spew

Baith gut an’ ga’!

I fear they bang’d thy belly fu’

Against the law.

Right seenil am I gi’en to bannin,

But, by my saul, ye was a cannon,

Cou’d hit a man had he been stannin

In shire o’ Fife,

Sax lang Scots miles ayont Clackmannan,

An’ tak his life.

The hills in terror wou’d cry out,

An’ echo to thy dinsome rout;

The herds wou’d gather in their nowt,

That glowr’d wi’ wonder,

Haflins afley’d to bide thereout

To hear thy thunder.

Sing likewise, Muse, how Blue-gown bodies,

Like scar-craws new ta’en down frae woodies,

Come here to cast their clouted duddies,

An’ get their pay:

Than them what magistrate mair proud is

On king’s birth-day?

On this great day the city-guard,

In military art weel lear’d,

Wi’ powder’d pow and shaven beard,

Gang thro’ their functions,

By hostile rabble seldom spar’d

O’ clatty unctions.

O soldiers! for your ain dear sakes,

For Scotland’s, alias, Land o’ Cakes,

Gie not her bairns sie deadly pakes,

Nor be sae rude,

Wi’ firelock or Lochaber aix,

As spill their blude.

Now round an’ round the serpents whiz,

Wi’ hissing wrath and angry phiz;

Sometimes they catch a gentle gizz,

Alack-a-day!

An’ singe wi’ hair-devouring bizz,

Its curls away.

Shou’d th’ owner patiently keek round,

To view the nature o’ his wound,

Dead pussie, draggled thro’ the pond,

Taks him a lounder,

Whilk lays his honour on the ground

As flat’s a flounder.

The Muse maun also now implore

Auld wives to steek ilk hole an’ bore;

If badrins slip but to the door,

I fear, I fear,

She’ll nae lang shank upo’ all four

This time o’ year.

Neist day ilk hero tells his news,

O’ crackit crowns and broken brows,

An’ deeds that here forbid the Muse

Her theme to swell,

Or time mair precious to abuse

Their crimes to tell,

She’ll rather to the fields resort,

Whare music gars the day seem short,

Whare doggies play, and lambies sport,

On gowany braes,

Whare peerless Fancy hads her court,

And tunes her lays.