Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

While youthful poets, thro’ the grove,

Chaunt saft their canny lays o’ love,

And a’ their skill exert to move

The darling object;

I chuse, as ye may shortly prove,

A rougher subject.

What sairs to bother us in sonnet,

’Bout chin an’ cheek, an’ brow an’ bonnet?

Just chirlin like a widow’d linnet,

Thro’ bushes lurchin;

Love’s stangs are ill to thole, I own it,

But to my hurchin.

Thou grimest far o’ grusome tykes,

Grubbing thy food by thorny dykes,

Gudefaith thoudisna want for pikes,

Baith sharp an’ rauckle;

Thou looks (Lord save’s) array’d in spikes,

A creepin heckle!

Some say thou’rt sib kin to the sow,

But sibber to the deil, I trow;

An’ what thy use can be, there’s few

That can explain;

But naithing, as the learn’d allow,

Was made in vain.

Sure Nick begat thee, at the first,

On some auld whin or thorn accurst;

An’ some horn-finger’d harpie nurst

The ugly urchin;

Then Belzie, laughin, like to burst

First ca’d thee Hurchin!

Fok tell how thou, sae far frae daft,

Whar wind fa’n fruit lie scatter’d saft,

Will row thysel’, wi’ cunning craft,

An’ bear awa

Upon thy back, what sairs thee aft

A day or twa.

But whether this account be true,

Is mair than I will here avow;

If that thou stribs the outler cow,

As some assert,

A pretty milkmaid, I allow,

Forsooth thou art.

I’ve heard the superstitious say,

To meet thee on our morning way,

Portends some dire misluck that day —

Some black mischance;

Sic fools, howe’er, are far astray

Frae common sense.

Right monie a hurchin I hae seen,

At early morn, and eke at e’en,

Baith setting off, an’ whan I’ve been

Returning hame;

But Fate, indifferent, I ween,

Was much the same.

How lang will mortals nonsense blether,

And sauls to superstition tether!

For witch-craft, omens, altogether,

Are damn’d hotch-potch mock,

That now obtain sma credit ether

Frae us or Scotch fok.

Now creep awa the way ye came,

And tend your squeakin pups at hame;

Gin Colley should o’erhear the same,

It might be fatal,

For you, wi’ a’ the pikes ye claim,

Wi’ him to battle.