Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

I walk’d by mysel’ owre the sweet braes o’Yarrow,

When the earth wi’ the go wans o’July was drest;

But the sang o’ the bonny burn sounded like sorrow,

Round ilka house cauld as a last simmer’s nest.

I look’d thro’ the lift o’ the blue smiling morning,

But never ae wee cloud o’ mist could I see

On its way up to heaven the cottage adorning,

Hanging white owre the green o’ it’s sheltering tree.

By the outside I ken’d that the in was forsaken,

That nae tread o’ footsteps was heard on the floor;

O loud craw’d the cock whare was nane to awaken,

And the wild-raven croak’d on the seat by the door!

Sic silence sic lonesomeness, oh! were bewildering I

I heard nae lass singing when herding her sheep;

I met nae bright garlands o’ wee rosy children

Dancing on to the school-house just wakened frae sleep.

I past by the school-house when strangers were coming,

Whose windows with glad faces seem’d all alive;

Ae moment I hearken’d, but heard nae sweet humming,

For a night o’ dark vapour can silence the Hive.

I past by the pool whare the lasses at daw’ing

Used to bleach their white garments wi’ dafifm and din;

But the foam in the silence o’ nature was fa’ing,

And nae laughing rose loud thro’ the roar o’ the linn.

I gaed into a small town when sick o’ my roaming

Whare ance play’d the violthe tabor and flute;

Twas the hour lov’d by Labour, the saft-smiling gloaming,

Yet the Green round the Cross-stane was empty and mute.

To the yellow-flower’d meadow and scant rigs o’ tillage

The sheep a’ neglected had come frae the glen;

The cushat-dow coo’d in the midst o’ the village,

And the swallow had flown to the dwellings o’ men!

Sweet Denholm! not thus, when I lived in thy bosom,

Thy heart lay so still the last night o’ the week;

Then nane was sae weary that love would nae rouse him,

And grief gaed to dance with a laugh on his cheek.

Sic thoughts wet my eyne as the moonshine was beaming

On the kirk-tower that rose up sae silent and white;

The wan ghastly light on the dial was streaming,

But the still finger tauld not the hour o’ the night.

The mirk-time past slowly in siching- and weeping,

I waken’d and nature lay silent in mirth;

Owr’e a’ holy Scotland the Sabbath was sleeping

Arid heaven in beauty came down on the earth.

The morning smiled on but nae kirk-bell was ringing,

Nae plaid or blue bonnet came down frae the hill;

The kirk-door was shut, but nae psalm-tune was singing,

And I miss’d the wee voices sae sweet and sae shrill.

I look’d owr’e the quiet o’ Death’s empty dwelling,

The lav’rock walk’d mute ’mid the sorrowful scene,

And fifty brown hillocks wi’ fresh mould were swelling

Owre the kirk-yard o’ Denholm last simmer sae green.

The infant had died at the breast o’ its mither;

The cradle stood still near the mitherless bed;

At play the bairn sunk in the hand o’ its brither;

At the fauld on the mountain the shepherd lay dead.

Oh! in spring time ’tis eerie, when winter is over,

And birds should be glinting ow’re forest and lea,

When the lint-white and mavis the yellow leaves cover,

And nae blackbird sings loud frae the tap o’ his tree,

But eerier far when the spring-land rejoices

And laughs back to heaven with gratitude bright,

To hearken! and nae whare hear sweet human voices!

When man’s soul is dark in the season o’ light!