Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

Some folk in courts for pleasure sue,

An’ some ransack the theatre:

The airy nymph is won by few;

She’s of so coy a nature.

She shuns the great bedaub’d with lace,

Intent on rural jokin

An’ spite o’ breeding, deigns to grace

A merry Airshire rockin,

Sometimes at night.

At Halloween, when fairy sprites

Perform their mystic gambols,

When ilka witch her neebour greets,

On their nocturnal rambles;

When elves at midnight-hour are seen,

Near hollow caverns sportin,

Then lads an’ lasses aft convene,

In hopes to ken their fortune,

By freets that night.

At Jennet Reid’s not long ago,

Was held an annual meeting,

Of lasses fair an’ fine also,

With charms the most inviting:

Though it was wat, an’ wondrous mirk,

It stopp’d nae kind intention;

Some sprightly youths, frae Loudon-kirk,

Did haste to the convention,

Wi’ glee that night.

The nuts upon a clean hearthstane,

Were plac’d by ane anither,

An’ some gat lads, an’ some gat nane,

Just as they bleez’d the gither.

Some sullen cooffs refuse to burn;

Bad luck can ne’er be mended;

But or they a’ had got a turn,

The pokeful nits was ended

Owre soon that night.

A candle on a stick was hung,

An’ ti’d up to the kipple:

Ilk lad an’ lass, baith auld an’ young,

Did try to catch the apple;

Which aft, in spite o’ a’ their care,

Their furious jaws escaped;

They touch’d it ay, but did nae mair,

Though greedily they gaped,

Fu’ wide that night.

The dishes then, by joint advice,

Were plac’d upon the floor;

Some stammer’d on the toom ane thrice,

In that unlucky hour.

Poor Mall maun to the garret go,

Nae rays o’ comfort meeting;

Because sae aft she’s answered no,

She’ll spend her days in greeting,

An’ ilka night.

Poor James sat trembling for his fate;

He lang had dree’d the worst o’t;

Though they had tugg’d and rugg’d till yet,

To touch the dish he durst not.

The empty bowl, before his eyes,

Replete with ills appeared;

No man nor maid could make him rise,

The consequence he feared

Sae much that night.

Wi’ heartsome glee the minutes past,

Each act to mirth conspired:

The cushion game perform’d at last,

Was most of all admired.

From Janet’s bed a bolster came,

Nor lad nor lass was missing;

But ilka ane wha caught the same,

Was pleas’d wil routh o’ kissing,

Fu’ sweet that night.

Soon as they heard the forward clock

Proclaim ’twas nine, they started,

An’ ilka lass took up her rock;

Reluctantly they parted,

In hopes to meet some other time,

Exempt from false aspersion;

Nor will they count it any crime,

To hae sic like diversion

Some future night.

Hail meek-ey’d maid! of matchless worth!

Our best companion here on earth;

To thee sole pow’r is giv’n,

T’ illume our dark and dreary way,

As through life’s mazy path we stray,

And bend our steps to heav’n.

’Tis thine to smooth the rugged vale,

To stem the trickling tear;

Thy whispers, as the spicy gale,

Do drooping trav’llers cheer.

Incline thou, to shine now

Upon me as I go;

Thy favour shall ever

Alleviate my wo.

Thy presence calms the raging seas,

And to the throbbing breast gives ease

Amid the tempest’s howl,

When waves appear as mountains high,

When swelling surges dash the sky,

And foaming billows roll;

When danger, with uplifted hand,

Proclaims th’ approaching doom,

Thou gently dost the stroke withstand,

And dissipates the gloom.

When caring, despairing,

And deeming all as lost,

Thy rays will portray still

The long expected coast.

Thou animates the hero’s flame;

To him presents a deathless name

In the ensanguin’d field:

Thou dost his nerves with valour brace,

Bids him, with bold undaunted face,

Destructive weapons wield.

War’s trumpet, breathing rude alarms,

Strikes terror all around;

Thy voice of fame, and honour’s charms,

Outvies the direful sound.

When falling, appalling

The tumults wild increase,

On wings then, thou brings then

The harbinger of peace.

Thy power elates the student’s views;

The paths of science kindly strews

With never-fading flow’rs.

Depriv’d of thee, how lovers mourn

Dejected, restless and forlorn,

In unfrequented bow’rs!

Attending still on Hymen’s rites,

Thou decorates the chain;

Thy smile the sprightly maid invites

And lures the youthful swain:

Still easing, and pleasing,

When stern misfortune stares,

’Mid losses, and crosses,

Thou lightens all their cares.

From life’s fair dawn to liart eve,

We all thy flatt’ring tales believe,

Enamour’d of thy art:

Thy soft and salutary voice

Gives birth to unexpected joys,

And soothes the bleeding heart:

And even at our latest hour,

When earthly comforts fly,

Thou dost, by a superior Pow’r,

Death’s terrors all defy.

Not grieving, when leaving

This scene of dole and care,

But viewing, pursuing

A more exalted sphere.