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Роберт Льюис Стивенсон «Вересковый мед»
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Robert Burns John Barleycorn
There was three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high,
And they have sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.
They took a plough and ploughed him down,
Put clods upon his head,
And they have sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.
But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,
And showers began to fall;
John barleycorn got up again,
And sore surprised them all.
The sultry suns of Summer came,
And he grew thick and strong:
His head well armed with pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.
The sober Autumn entered mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Showed he began to fail.
His colour sickened more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.
They have taken a weapon long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgery.
They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgeled him full sore.
They hung him up before the storm,
And turned him over and over.
They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim,
They heaved in John Barleycorn -
There, let him sink of swim!
They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him further woe;
And still, as signs of life appeared,
They toss'd him to and fro.
They wasted over a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller used him worst of all,
For he crushed him between two stones.
And they have taken his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.
John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste his blood,
It will make your courage rise.
It will make a man forget his woes;
It will heighten all his joy:
It will make the widow's heart to sing,
Though the tear were in her eye.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!
Перевод Самуила Маршака
Трех королей разгневал он,
И было решено,
Что навсегда погибнет Джон
Ячменное Зерно.
Велели выкопать сохой
Могилу короли,
Чтоб славный Джон, боец лихой,
Не вышел из земли.
Травой покрылся горный склон,
В ручьях воды полно,
А из земли выходит Джон
Ячменное Зерно.
Все так же буен и упрям,
С пригорка в летний зной
Грозит он копьями врагам,
Качая головой.
Но осень трезвая идет.
И, тяжко нагружен,
Поник под бременем забот,
Согнулся старый Джон.
Настало время помирать —
Зима недалека.
И тут-то недруги опять
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Взялись за старика.
Его подрезал острый нож,
Свалил беднягу с ног,
И, как бродягу на правёж,
Везут его на ток.
Дубасить Джона принялись
Злодеи поутру.
Потом, подбрасывая ввысь,
Кружили на ветру.
Он был в колодец погружен,
На сумрачное дно.
Но и в воде не тонет Джон
Ячменное Зерно!
Не пощадив его костей,
Швырнули их в костер.
А сердце мельник меж камней
Безжалостно растер.
Бушует кровь его в котле,
Под обручем бурлит,
Вскипает в кружках на столе
И души веселит.
Недаром был покойный Джон
При жизни молодец,—
Отвагу подымает он
Со дна людских сердец.
Он гонит вон из головы
Докучный рой забот.
За кружкой сердце у вдовы
От радости поёт.
Так пусть же до конца времен
Не высыхает дно
В бочонке, где клокочет Джон
Ячменное Зерно!
John Barleycorn is a British folksong. The character of John Barleycorn in the song is a personification of the important cereal crop barley and of the alcoholic beverages made from it, beer and whisky. In the song, John Barleycorn is represented as suffering attacks, death and indignities that correspond to the various stages of barley cultivation, such as reaping and malting.
Heather Ale
A GALLOWAY LEGEND
From the bonny bells of heather
They brewed a drink long-syne,
Was sweeter far then honey,
Was stronger far than wine.
They brewed it and they drank it,
And lay in a blessed swound
For days and days together
In their dwellings underground.
There rose a king in Scotland,
A fell man to his foes [fəʊz],
He smote the Picts in battle,
He hunted them like roes.
Over miles of the red mountain
He hunted as they fled,
And strewed the dwarfish bodies
Of the dying and the dead.
Summer came in the country,
Red was the heather bell;
But the manner of the brewing
Was none alive to tell.
In graves that were like children's
On many a mountain head,
The Brewsters of the Heather
Lay numbered with the dead.
The king in the red moorland
Rode on a summer's day;
And the bees hummed, and the curlews [kɜːljuːz]
Cried beside the way.
The king rode, and was angry,
Black was his brow and pale,
To rule in a land of heather
And lack the Heather Ale.
It fortuned that his vassals [vasəlz],
Riding free on the heath [hiːθ],
Came on a stone that was fallen
And vermin hid beneath.
Rudely plucked from their hiding,
Never a word they spoke;
A son and his aged father --
Last of the dwarfish folk.
The king sat high on his charger,
He looked on the little men;
And the dwarfish and swarthy couple
Looked at the king again.
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Down by the shore he had them;
And there on the giddy brink --
"I will give you life, ye vermin,
For the secret of the drink."
There stood the son and father,
And they looked high and low;
The heather was red around them,
The sea rumbled below.
And up and spoke the father,
Shrill was his voice to hear:
"I have a word in private,
A word for the royal ear.
"Life is dear to the aged,
And honour a little thing;
I would gladly sell the secret,"
Quoth the Pict to the king.
His voice was small as a sparrow's,
And shrill and wonderful clear:
"I would gladly sell my secret,
Only my son I fear.
"For life is a little matter,
And death is nought [nɔːt] to the young;
And I dare not sell my honour
Under the eye of my son.
Take him, O king, and bind him,
And cast him far in the deep;
And it's I will tell the secret
That I have sworn to keep."
They took the son and bound him,
Neck and heels in a thong [θɔːŋ],
And a lad took him and swung him,
And flung him far and strong,
And the sea swallowed his body,
Like that of a child of ten; --
And there on the cliff stood the father,
Last of the dwarfish men.
"True was the word I told you:
Only my son I feared;
For I doubt the sapling courage
That goes without the beard.
But now in vain is the torture,
Fire shall never avail:
Here dies in my bosom
The secret of Heather Ale."
Роберт Льюис Стивенсон «Вересковый мед»
(перевод С. Маршака)
Из вереска напиток
Забыт давным-давно.
А был он слаще меда,
Пьянее, чем вино.
В котлах его варили
И пили всей семьей
Малютки-медовары
В пещерах под землей.
Пришел король шотландский,
Безжалостный к врагам,
Погнал он бедных пиктов
К скалистым берегам.
На вересковом поле
На поле боевом
Лежал живой на мертвом
И мертвый -на живом.
Лето в стране настало,
Вереск опять цветет,
Но некому готовить
Вересковый мед.
В своих могилках тесных,
В горах родной земли
Малютки-медовары
Приют себе нашли.
Король по склону едет
Над морем на коне,
А рядом реют чайки
С дорогой наравне.
Король глядит угрюмо:
«Опять в краю моем
Цветет медвяный вереск,
А меда мы не пьем!»
Но вот его вассалы
Приметили двоих
Последних медоваров,
Оставшихся в живых.
Вышли они из-под камня,
Щурясь на белый свет,-
Старый горбатый карлик
И мальчик пятнадцати лет.
К берегу моря крутому
Их привели на допрос,
Но ни один из пленных
Слова не произнес.
Сидел король шотландский,
Не шевелясь в седле,
А маленькие люди
Стояли на земле.
Гневно король промолвил:
— Пытка обоих ждет,
Если не скажете, черти,
Как вы готовите мед!
Сын и отец молчали,
Стоя у края скалы.
Вереск звенел над ними,
В море катились валы.
И вдруг голосок раздался:
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— Слушай, шотландский король,
Поговорить с тобою
С глазу на глаз позволь!
Старость боится смерти.
Жизнь я изменой куплю,
Выдам заветную тайну!-
Карлик сказал королю.
Голос его воробьиный
Резко и четко звучал:
— Тайну давно бы выдал,
Если бы сын не мешал!
Мальчику жизни не жалко,
Гибель ему нипочем,
Мне продавать свою совесть,
Совестно будет при нем.
Пускай его крепко свяжут
И бросят в пучину вод,
А я научу шотландцев
Готовить старинный мед!
Сильный шотландский воин
Мальчика крепко связал
И бросил в открытое море
С прибрежных отвесных скал.
Волны над ним сомкнулись.
Замер последний крик…
И эхом ему ответил
С обрыва отец старик.
— Правду сказал я, шотландцы,
От сына я ждал беды,
Не верил я в стойкость юных,
Не бреющих бороды.
А мне костер не страшен,
Пускай со мной умрет
Моя святая тайна –
Мой вересковый мед!
swound — оцепенение
fell — лютый, свирепый, безжалостный;
a foe — враг;
smote — уничтожить, разгромить;
strew — усеять;
The brewsters of the Heather — Медовары;
moorland — вересковая пустошь;
a curlew — кроншнеп;
hum — жужжать;
brow — выражение лица
Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear, [fɔːˈbɛː]
To dig the dust enclosed here.
Blessed be the man that spares these stones, [speəz]
And cursed be he that moves my bones.
О, добрый друг, во имя Бога,
Ты прах под камнем сим не трогай,
Сна не тревожь костей моих,
Будь проклят тот, кто тронет их!
Друг, ради Господа, не рой
Останков, взятых сей землей;
Нетронувший блажен в веках,
И проклят — тронувший мой прах.
Stay, passenger, why goest thou by so fast?
Read, if thou canst, whom envious death hath placed
Within this monument: Shakespeare, with whom
Quick nature doed; whose name doth deck his tomb
Far more than cost; sith all that he had writ
Leaves living art but page to serve his wit.
Стой, путник, удели время на твоем пути,
Прочитай, если можешь, кто здесь положен
Это могила Шекспира, с которым умерла вся природа!
Ничто не украшает камня лучше сего имени,
Так как высокий смысл его произведений
Подчиняет ему живое искусство.
Her Majesty Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith. Queen of Antigua and Barbuda • Queen of Australia • Queen of the Bahamas • Queen of Barbados • Queen of Belize • Queen of Canada • Queen of Grenada • Queen of Jamaica • Queen of New Zealand • Queen of Papua New Guinea • Queen of Saint Kitts and Nevis • Queen of Saint Lucia • Queen of Saint Vincent and the Grenadines • Queen of the Solomon Islands • Queen of Tuvalu • Queen of the United Kingdom
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Her Majesty Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, of Great Britain, Ireland and the British Dominions beyond the Seas Queen, Defender of the Faith, Duchess of Edinburgh, Countess of Merioneth, Baroness Greenwich, Duke of Lancaster, Lord of Mann, Duke of Normandy, Sovereign of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, Sovereign of the Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle, Sovereign of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, Sovereign of the Most Distinguished Order of Saint Michael and Saint George, Sovereign of the Distinguished Service Order, Sovereign of the Order of Merit, Sovereign of the Imperial Service Order, Sovereign of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire, Sovereign of the Order of the Companions of Honour, Sovereign of the Royal Victorian Order, Sovereign of the Most Venerable Order of the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem.
Her Majesty Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, of Great Britain, Ireland and the British Dominions beyond the Seas Queen, Defender of the Faith, Duchess of Edinburgh, Countess of Merioneth, Baroness Greenwich, Duke of Lancaster, Lord of Mann, Duke of Normandy, Sovereign of the Most Honourable Order of the Garter, Sovereign of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, Sovereign of the Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle, Sovereign of the Most Illustrious Order of Saint Patrick, Sovereign of the Most Distinguished Order of Saint Michael and Saint George, Sovereign of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire, Sovereign of the Distinguished Service Order, Sovereign of the Imperial Service Order, Sovereign of the Most Exalted Order of the Star of India, Sovereign of the Most Eminent Order of the Indian Empire, Sovereign of the Order of British India, Sovereign of the Indian Order of Merit, Sovereign of the Order of Burma, Sovereign of the Royal Order of Victoria and Albert, Sovereign of the Royal Family Order of King Edward VII, Sovereign of the Order of Merit, Sovereign of the Order of the Companions of Honour, Sovereign of the Royal Victorian Order, Sovereign of the Most Venerable Order of the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem.
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