Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

From what dripping cell, through what fairy glen,

Where mid old rocks and ruins the fox makes his den;

Over what lonesome mountain,

Acushla machree!

Where gauger never has trod,

Sweet as the flowery sod,

Wild as the breath

Of the breeze on the heath,

And sparklin all o’er like the moon-lighted fountain,

Are you come to me —

Sorrowful me?

Dancing — inspirin —

My wild blood firin;

Oh! terrible glory —

Oh! beautiful siren —

Come, tell the old story —

Come light up my fancy, and open my heart.

Oh! beautiful ruin —

My life — my undoin’ —

Soft and fierce as a pantheress,

Dream of my longing and wreck of my soul,

I never knew love till I loved you, enchantheress!

At first, when I knew you, ’twas only flirtation,

The touch of a lip and the flash of an eye;

But ’tis different now — ’tis desperation!

I worship before you,

I curse and adore you,

And without you I’d die.

Wirrasthrue!

I wish ’twas again

The happy time when

I cared little about you,

Could do well without you,

But would just laugh and view you;

‘Tis little I knew you!

Oh! terrible darling,

How have you sought me,

Enchanted, and caught me?

See, now, where you’ve brought me —

To sleep by the road-side, and dress out in rags,

Think how you found me;

Dreams come around me —

The dew of my childhood, and life’s morning beam;

Now I sleep by the roadside, a wretch all in rags.

My heart that sang merrily when I was young,

Swells up like a billow and bursts in despair;

And the wreck of my hopes on sweet memory flung,

And cries on the air,

Are all that is left of the dream.

Wirrasthrue!

My father and mother,

The priest, and my brother —

Not a one has a good word for you.

But I can’t part you, darling, their preachin’s all vain;

You’ll burn in my heart till these thin pulses stop,

And the wild cup of life in your fragrance I’ll drain

To the last brilliant drop.

Then oblivion will cover

The shame that is over,

The brain that was mad, and the heart that was sore.

Then, beautiful witch,

I’ll be found — in a ditch,

With your kiss on my cold lips, and never rise more.