Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

Donald’s gane up the hill hard and hungry

Donald comes down the hill wild and angry

Donald will clear the gouk’s nest cleverly

Here’s tae the king and Donald Macgillavry

Come like a weigh-bauk, Donald Macgillavry

Come like a weigh-bauk, Donald Macgillavry

Balance them fair, and balance them cleverly

Off wi’ the counterfeit, Donald Macgillavry

Donald’s run o’er the hill but his tether, man

As he were wud, or stang’d wi’ an ether, man

When he comes back, there’s some will look merrily

Here’s tae King James and Donald Macgillavry

Come like a weaver, Donald Macgillavry

Come like a weaver, Donald Macgillavry

Pack on your back, an elwand sae cleverly

Gie them full measure, my Donald Macgillavry

Donald has foughten wi’ reif and roguery

Donald has dinner’d wi’ banes and beggery

Better it were for Whigs and Whiggery

Meeting the devil than Donald Macgillavry

Come like a tailor, Donald Macgillavry

Come like a tailor, Donald Macgillavry

Push about, in and out, thimble them cleverly

Here’s tae King James and Donald Macgillavry

Donald’s the callan that brooks nae tangleness

Whigging, and prigging, and a’ newfangleness

They maun be gane; he winna be baukit, man

He maun hae justice, or faith he’ll tak it, man

Come like a cobler, Donald Macgillavry

Come like a cobler, Donald Macgillavry

Beat them, and bore them, and lingel them cleverly

Up wi’ King James and Donald Macgillavry

Donald was mumpit wi’ mirds and mockery

Donald was blindid wi’ blads o’ property

Arles ran high, but makings war naething, man

Lord, how Donald is flyting and fretting, man

Come like the devil, Donald Macgillavry

Come like the devil, Donald Macgillavry

Skelp them an’ scaud them that prov’d sae unbritherly

Up wi’ King James and Donald Macgillavry.

Hast thou not noted on the bye-way side,

Where England’s loanings stretch unsoiled and wide,

Or by the brook that through the valley pours,

Where mimic waves play lightly through the flowers —

A noisy crew, far straggling in the glade,

Busied with trifles or in slumber laid;

Their children lolling round them on the grass,

Or pestering with their sports the patient ass?

The wrinkled grandam there you may espy,

The ripe young maiden with the glossy eye,

Men in their prime — the striplings dark and dun,

Scathed by the storms and freckled by the sun:

Oh, mark them well, when next the group you see

In vacant barn, or resting on the lea!

They are the remnant of a race of old —

Spare not the trifle for your fortune told,

For there shalt thou behold with nature blent

A tint of mind in every lineament;

A mould of soul distinct, but hard to trace,

Unknown except to Israel’s wandering race;

For thence, as sages say, their line they drew —

Oh, mark them well! the tales of old are true.

‘Tis told that once in ages long gone by,

When Christian zeal ran to extremity;

When Europe, like a flood no might could stem,

Poured forth her millions on Jerusalem;

One roaming tribe of Araby they won,

Bent on the spoil and foray just begun.

Great was their value — every path they knew,

Where sprung the fountain, where the forage grew,

And better wist than all the Christian men

How to mislead and vex the Saracen.

But when the nations by experience knew

Their folly, and from eastern realms withdrew,

The alien tribe durst not remain behind,

Empires and hordes against them were combined.

Thither they came. — But still the word of Heaven

Stedfast remains to ancient Abram given:

“Wild shall they be ’mid nations from their birth,

All hands against them — theirs against all earth”

Thus still they wander unrestrained and free

As erst their fathers did in Araby.

Peopled or not-it is the same — they view

The earth as their unalienable due,

And move by one undeviating plan

To take whate’er they may — protect who can.

Strange are their annals — Oh, regard them well!

For thou hast much to hear and I to tell.

I like ye weel, my wee auld house,

Though laigh the wa’s an’ flat the riggin’;

Though round thy lum the sourick grows,

An’ rain-draps gaw my cozy biggin’.

Lang hast thou happit mine an’ me,

My head’s grown gray aneath thy kipple;

An’ aye thy ingle cheek was free

Baith to the blind man an’ the cripple:

An’ to the puir forsaken wight

Wi’ bairnie at her bosom cryin’,

My cot was open day an’ night,

Nor wanted bed for sick to lie in.

What gart my ewes thrive on the hill,

An’ kept my little store increasin’? —

The rich man never wished me ill,

The puir man left me aye his blessin’.

Troth, I maun greet wi’ thee to part,

Though to a better house I’m flittin’;

Sic joys will never glad my heart

As I’ve had by thy hallan sittin’.

My bonnie bairns around me smiled;

My sonsie wife sat by me spinnin’,

Aye liltin’ owre her ditties wild,

In notes sae artless and sae winnin’.

Our frugal meal was aye a feast;

Our e’enin’ psalm a hymn of joy:

Aye calm an’ peacefu’ was our rest;

Our bliss, our love without alloy.

I canna help but haud thee dear,

My auld, storm-battered hamely sheilin’;

Thy sooty lum an’ kipples clear

I better lo’e than gaudy ceilin’.

Thy roof will fa’, thy rafters start,

How damp an’ cauld thy hearth will be!

Ah, sae will soon ilk honest heart,

That erst was blithe an’ bauld in thee.

I thought to cower aneath thy wa’,

Till death had closed my weary e’en;

Then left thee for the narrow ha’,

Wi’ lowly roof o’ swaird sae green.

Fareweel, my house an’ burnie clear,

My bourtree bush an’ bowzy tree;

The wee while I maun sojourn here,

I’ll never find a hame like thee!

Hurray, hurray, the jade’s away.

Like a rocket of air with her bandalet!

I’m up in the air on my bonnie grey mare,

But I see her yet, I see her yet.

I’ll ring the skirts o’ the gowden wain

Wi’ curb an’ bit, wi’ curb an’ bit:

An’ catch the Bear by the frozen mane —

An’ I see her yet, I see her yet.

Away, away, o’er mountain an’ main,

To sing at the morning’s rosy yett;

An’ water my mare at its fountain clear —

But I see her yet, I see her yet.

Away, thou bonnie witch o’ Fife,

On foam of the air to heave an’ flit,

An’ little reck thou of a poet’s life,

For he sees thee yet, he sees thee yet!

Thou art weary, weary, weary,

Thou art weary and far away,

Hear me, gentle spirit, hear me,

Come before the dawn of day.

I hear a small voice from the hill,

The vapour is deadly, pale, and still —

A murmuring sough is on the wood,

And the witching star is red as blood.

And in the cleft of heaven I scan

The giant form of a naked man,

His eye is like the burning brand,

And he holds a sword in his right hand.

All is not well. By dint of spell,

Somewhere between the heaven and hell

There is this night a wild deray,

The spirits have wander’d from their way.

The purple drops shall tinge the moon

As she wanders through the midnight noon;

And the dawning heaven shall all be red

With blood by guilty angels shed.

Be as it will, I have the skill

To work by good or work by ill;

Then here’s for pain, and here’s for thrall,

And here’s for conscience, worst of all.

Another chant, and then, and then,

Spirits shall come or Christian men—

Come from the earth, the air, or the sea,

Great Gil-Moules, I cry to thee!

Sleep’st thou, wakest thou, lord of the wind,

Mount thy steeds and gallop them blind;

And the long-tailed fiery dragon outfly,

The rocket of heaven, the bomb of the sky.

Over the dog-star, over the wain,

Over the cloud, and the rainbow’s mane,

Over the mountain, and over the sea,

Haste — haste — haste to me!

Then here’s for trouble, and here’s for smart,

And here’s for the pang that seeks the heart;

Here’s for madness, and here’s for thrall,

And here’s for conscience, the worst of all!