Роберт БЁРНС
См. журнал "Самиздат"
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Роберт БЁРНС
См. журнал "Самиздат"
и
http://robertburns.narod.ru/
СодержаниеI. Ранние стихотворения 1774-1784: Лохли и Маунт Олифант |
Нумерация перед названиями стихотворений приведена в соответствии со сборником стихов, который служил источником для переводов, и из которого воспроизведена здесь большая часть текстов:
Ранние стихотворения 1774-1784: Лохли и Маунт Олифант
1. O once I lov'd
См. Основные даты жизни Роберта Бернса.
O once I lov'd a bonnie lass. An' aye I love her still, An' whilst that virtue warms my breast I'll love my handsome Nell. As bonnie lasses I hae seen. And mony full as braw, But for a modest gracefu' mein The like I never saw. A bonny lass I will confess, Is pleasant to the e'e, But without some better qualities She's no a lass for me. But Nelly's looks are blythe and sweet, And what is best of a', Her reputation is compleat, And fair without a flaw; She dresses ay sae clean and neat, Both decent and genteel; And then there's something in her gait Gars ony dress look weel. A gaudy dress and gentle air May slightly touch the heart, But it's innocence and modesty That polishes the dart. 'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 'Tis this enchants my soul; For absolutely in my breast She reigns without controul.
2. Song, composed in August. *
I Now westlin winds, and slaughtering guns Bring Autumn's pleasant weather; The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, Amang the blooming heather: Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, Delights the weary Farmer; The moon shines bright, as I rove at night, To muse upon my Charmer. II The Pairtrick lo'es the fruitfu' fells; The Plover lo'es the mountains; The Woodcock haunts the lanely dells; The soaring Hern the fountains: Thro' lofty groves, the Cushat roves, The path o' man to shun it; The hazel bush o'erhangs the Thrush, The spreading thorn the Linnet. III Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find. The savage and the tender; Some social join, and leagues combine; Some solitary wander: Avaunt, away! the cruel sway, Tyrannic man's dominion; The Sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, The flutt'ring, gory pinion! IV But Peggy dear, the ev'ning 's clear, Thick flies the skimming Swallow; The sky is blue, the fields in view, All fading-green and yellow: Come let us stray our gladsome way, And view the charms o' Nature; The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, And ilka happy creature. V We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, While the silent moon shines clearly; I'll clasp thy waist, and fondly prest, Swear how I lo'e thee dearly: Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs, Not Autumn to the Farmer, So dear can be, as thou to me, My fair, my lovely Charmer!
3. I dream'd I lay.
I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing Gaily in the sunny beam, List'ning to the wild birds singing, By a falling, chrystal stream; Streight the sky grew black and daring, Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave; Trees with aged arms were warring, O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. Such was my life's deceitful morning, Such the pleasures I enjoy'd; But lang or noon, loud tempests storming A' my flowery bliss destroy'd. Tho' fickle Fortune has deceiv'd me, She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill; Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, I bear a heart shall support me still.
4. Behind yon hills where Lugar flows. $
Song. I Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 'Mang moors an' mosses many, O, The wintry sun the day has clos'd, And I'll awa to Nanie, O. II The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill; The night's baith mirk and rainy, O; But I'll get my plaid an' out I'll steal, An' owre the hill to Nanie, O. III My Nanie's charming, sweet an' young; Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O: May ill befa' the flattering tongue That wad beguile my Nanie, O. IV Her face is fair, her heart is true, As spotless as she's bonie, O; The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew, Nae purer is than Name, O. v A country lad is my degree, An' few there be that ken me, O; But what care I how few they be, I'm welcome ay to Nanie, O. VI My riches a's my penny-fee, An' I maun guide it cannie, O; But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, My thoughts are a', my Nanie, O. VII Our auld Guidman delights to view His sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O; But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh, An' has nae care but Nanie, O. VIII Come weel come woe, I care na by, I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O; Nae ither care in life have I, But live, an' love my Nanie, O.
5. A Penitential thought, in the hour of Remorse.
Intended for a tragedy ALL devil as I am, a damned wretch, A harden'd, stubborn, unrepenting villain, Still my heart melts at human wretchedness; And with sincere tho' unavailing sighs I view the helpless children of Distress. ^ With tears indignant I behold th' Oppressor, Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction, Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime. Even you, ye hapless crew, I pity you; Ye, whom the Seeming good think sin to pity; Ye poor, despis'd, abandon'd vagabonds, Whom Vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to Ruin. O, but for kind, tho' ill-requited friends, I had been driven forth like you forlorn, The most detested, worthless wretch among you! O injur'd God! Thy goodness has endow'd me With talents passing most of my compeers, Which I in just proportion have abus'd; As far surpassing other common villains As Thou in natural parts hadst given me more- ALL devil as I am, a damned wretch, A harden'd, stubborn, unrepenting villain, Still my heart melts at human wretchedness; And with sincere tho' unavailing sighs I view the helpless children of Distress, With tears indignant I behold th' Oppressor, Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction, Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime. Even you, ye hapless crew, I pity you; Ye, whom the Seeming good think sin to pity; Ye poor, despis'd, abandon'd vagabonds, Whom Vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to Ruin. O, but for kind, tho' ill-requited friends, I had been driven forth like you forlorn, The most detested, worthless wretch among you! O injur'd God! Thy goodness has endow'd me With talents passing most of my compeers, Which I in just proportion have abus'd; As far surpassing other common villains As Thou in natural parts hadst given me more.
7. A Fragment.
One night as I did wander, When corn begins to shoot, I sat me down to ponder Upon an auld tree root: Auld Aire ran by before me. And bicker'd to the seas; A cushat crouded o'er me, That echoed thro' the braes.
10. The Winter.
I The Wintry West extends his blast. And hail and rain does blaw; Or, the stormy North sends driving forth, The blinding sleet and snaw: While, tumbling brown, the Burn comes down, And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast, in covert, rest, And pass the heartless day. II The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast, The joyless winter day, Let others fear, to me more dear. Than all the pride of May: The Tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine! III Thou Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty Scheme, These woes of mine fulfil; Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, Because they are Thy Will! Then all I want (Oh, do thou grant This one request of mine! Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, Assist me to resign.
11.ON Cessnock banks a lassie dwells.
ON Cessnock banks a lassie dwells; Could I describe her shape and mien; Our lassies a' she far excels. An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een. She's sweeter than the morning dawn When rising Phoebus first is seen And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn; An’ she has twa sparkling, rogueish een. She's stately, like yon youthful ash That grows the cowslips braes between And drinks the stream with vigour fresh; An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een. She's spotless, like the flow'ring thorn With flow'rs so white and leaves so green When purest in the dewy morn; An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een. Her looks are like the vernal May When ev'ning Phoebus shines serene, While birds rejoice on ev'ry spray; An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een. Her hair is like the curling mist That climbs the mountain sides at e'en, When flow'r-reviving rains are past; An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een. Her forehead's like the show'ry bow When gleaming sun-beams intervene And gild the distant mountain's brow; An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een, Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem, The pride of all the flowery scene, Just opening on its thorny stem; An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een. Her teeth are like the nightly snow When pale the morning rises keen, While hid the murmuring streamlets flow; An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een. Her lips are like yon cherries ripe Which sunny walls from Boreas screen; They tempt the taste and charm the sight; An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een. Her breath is like the fragrant breeze That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, When Phoebus sinks behind the seas; An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een. Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush That sings on Cessnock banks unseen, While his mate sits nestling in the bush; An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een. But it's not her air, her form, her face, Though matching beauty's fabled Queen; 'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace, An' chiefly in her rogueish een.
12. To Ruin.
I ALL hail! inexorable lord! At whose destruction-breathing word, The mightiest empires fall! Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, The ministers of Grief and Pain, A sullen welcome, all! With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, I see each aimed dart; For one has cut my dearest tye, And quivers in my heart. Then low'ring, and pouring, The Storm no more I dread; Tho' thick'ning, and black'ning, Round my devoted head. II And thou grim Pow'r, by Life abhorr'd, While Life a pleasure can afford, Oh! hear a wretch's pray'r! No more I shrink appall'd, afraid; I court, I beg thy friendly aid, To close this scene of care! When shall my soul, in silent peace, Resign Life's joy less day? My weary heart it's throbbings cease, Cold-mould'ring in the clay? No fear more, no tear more, To stain my lifeless face, Enclasped, and grasped, Within thy cold embrace!
13. Молитва перед смертью.
13. A Prayer, in the Prospect of Death I O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear! In whose dread Presence, ere an hour, Perhaps I must appear! II If I have wander'd in those paths Of life I ought to shun; As Something, loudly, in my breast, Remonstrates I have done; III Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me, With Passions wild and strong; And list'ning to their witching voice Has often led me wrong. IV Where human weakness has come short, Or frailty stept aside, Do Thou, All Good, for such Thou art, In shades of darkness hide. v Where with intention I have err'd, No other plea I have, But, Thou art good; and Goodness still Delighteth to forgive.
14. Stanzas on the same Occasion.
WHY am I loth to leave this earthly scene? Have I so found it full of pleasing charms? Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between; Some gleams of sunshine mid renewing storms: Is it departing pangs my soul alarms? Or Death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms; I tremble to approach an angry GOD, And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. Fain would I say, 'Forgive my foul offence!' Fain promise never more to disobey; But, should my Author health again dispense, Again I might desert fair Virtue's way; Again in Folly's path might go astray; Again exalt the brute and sink the man; Then how should I for Heavenly Mercy pray, Who act so counter Heavenly Mercy's plan? Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran? / O Thou, Great Governor of all below! If I may dare a lifted eye to thee, Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, Or still the tumult of the raging sea: With that controuling pow'r assist ev'n me, Those headlong, furious passions to confine; For all unfit I feel my powers to be, To rule their torrent in th' allowed line; O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine!
15. A Prayer, Under the Pressure of violent Anguish.
O THOU great Being! what Thou art, Surpasses me to know: Yet sure I am, that known to Thee Are all Thy works below. Thy creature here before Thee stands, All wretched and distrest; Yet sure those ills that wring my soul Obey Thy high behest. Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act From cruelty or wrath! O, free my weary eyes from tears, Or close them fast in death! But if I must afflicted be, To suit some wise design; Then, man my soul with firm resolves To bear and not repine!
16. [Though fickle Fortune has deceived me.
THOUGH fickle Fortune has deceiv'd me. She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill; Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me, Yet I bear a heart shall support me still. I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able, But if success I must never find, Then come Misfortune, I bid thee welcome, I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind.
17. 0 raging Fortune's withering blast.
O RAGING Fortune's withering blast Has laid my leaf full low! O O raging Fortune's withering blast Has laid my leaf full low! O My stem was fair my bud was green My blossom sweet did blow; O The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild, And made my branches grow; O But luckless Fortune's northern storms Laid a' my blossoms low, O But luckless Fortune's northern storms Laid a' my blossoms low, O.
19. Paraphrase Of The First Psalm.
The man, in life wherever plac'd, Hath happiness in store, Who walks not in the wicked's way, Nor learns their guilty lore! Nor from the seat of scornful pride Casts forth his eyes abroad, But with humility and awe Still walks before his God. That man shall flourish like the trees, Which by the streamlets grow; The fruitful top is spread on high, And firm the root below. But he whose blossom buds in guilt Shall to the ground be cast, And, like the rootless stubble, tost Before the sweeping blast. For why? that God the good adore, Hath giv'n them peace and rest, But hath decreed that wicked men Shall ne'er be truly blest.
20. The First Six Verses Of The Ninetieth Psalm.
O Thou, the first, the greatest friend Of all the human race! Whose strong right hand has ever been Their stay and dwelling place! Before the mountains heav'd their heads Beneath Thy forming hand, Before this ponderous globe itself Arose at Thy command; That Pow'r which rais'd and still upholds This universal frame, From countless, unbeginning time Was ever still the same. Those mighty periods of years Which seem to us so vast, Appear no more before Thy sight Than yesterday that's past. Thou giv'st the word: Thy creature, man, Is to existence brought; Again Thou say'st, "Ye sons of men, Return ye into nought!" Thou layest them, with all their cares, In everlasting sleep; As with a flood Thou tak'st them off With overwhelming sweep. They flourish like the morning flow'r, In beauty's pride array'd; But long ere night cut down it lies All wither'd and decay'd.
22. Montgomerie's Peggy. $
Altho' my bed were in yon muir, Amang the heather, in my plaidie; Yet happy, happy would I be, Had I my dear Montgomerie's Peggy. When o'er the hill beat surly storms, And winter nights were dark and rainy; I'd seek some dell, and in my arms I'd shelter dear Montgomerie's Peggy. Were I a baron proud and high, And horse and servants waiting ready; Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me, - The sharin't with Montgomerie's Peggy.
23. John Barleycorn: A Ballad. *
There was three kings into the east, Three kings both great and high, And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die. They took a plough and plough'd him down, Put clods upon his head, And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead. But the cheerful Spring came kindly on, And show'rs began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris'd them all. The sultry suns of Summer came, And he grew thick and strong; His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, That no one should him wrong. The sober Autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale; His bending joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail. His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage. They've taen a weapon, long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; Then tied him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgerie. They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell'd him full sore; They hung him up before the storm, And turned him o'er and o'er. They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim; They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim. They laid him out upon the floor, To work him farther woe; And still, as signs of life appear'd, They toss'd him to and fro. They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, The marrow of his bones; But a miller us'd him worst of all, For he crush'd him between two stones. And they hae taen 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, 'Twill make your courage rise. 'Twill make a man forget his woe; 'Twill heighten all his joy; 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' 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!
26. Remorse: A Fragment.
Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish Beyond comparison the worst are those By our own folly, or our guilt brought on: In ev'ry other circumstance, the mind Has this to say, "It was no deed of mine:" But, when to all the evil of misfortune This sting is added, "Blame thy foolish self!" Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse, The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt- Of guilt, perhaps, when we've involved others, The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us; Nay more, that very love their cause of ruin! O burning hell! in all thy store of torments There's not a keener lash! Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, Can reason down its agonizing throbs; And, after proper purpose of amendment, Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace? O happy, happy, enviable man! O glorious magnanimity of soul!
27. No Churchman Am I. Song.$
No churchman am I for to rail and to write, No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, No sly man of business contriving a snare, For a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care. The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow; I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low; But a club of good fellows, like those that are here, And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. Here passes the squire on his brother-his horse; There centum per centum, the cit with his purse; But see you the Crown how it waves in the air? There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care. The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die; for sweet consolation to church I did fly; I found that old Solomon proved it fair, That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care. I once was persuaded a venture to make; A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck; But the pursy old landlord just waddl'd upstairs, With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. "Life's cares they are comforts"-a maxim laid down By the Bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown; And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair, For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of a care. A Stanza Added In A Mason Lodge Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow, And honours masonic prepare for to throw; May ev'ry true Brother of the Compass and Square Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with care.
29. In The Character Of A Ruined Farmer. Song.$
The sun he is sunk in the west, All creatures retired to rest, While here I sit, all sore beset, With sorrow, grief, and woe: And it's O, fickle Fortune, O! The prosperous man is asleep, Nor hears how the whirlwinds sweep; But Misery and I must watch The surly tempest blow: And it's O, fickle Fortune, O! There lies the dear partner of my breast; Her cares for a moment at rest: Must I see thee, my youthful pride, Thus brought so very low! And it's O, fickle Fortune, O! There lie my sweet babies in her arms; No anxious fear their little hearts alarms; But for their sake my heart does ache, With many a bitter throe: And it's O, fickle Fortune, O! I once was by Fortune carest: I once could relieve the distrest: Now life's poor support, hardly earn'd My fate will scarce bestow: And it's O, fickle Fortune, O! No comfort, no comfort I have! How welcome to me were the grave! But then my wife and children dear- O, wither would they go! And it's O, fickle Fortune, O! O whither, O whither shall I turn! All friendless, forsaken, forlorn! For, in this world, Rest or Peace I never more shall know! And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!
30. Mary Morison.
O Mary, at thy window be, It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor: How blythely was I bide the stour, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison. Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw: Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sigh'd, and said among them a', "Ye are na Mary Morison." Oh, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me shown; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison.
II. Стихотворения 1784-1785: Мосгил
31. Epitaph On My Own Friend And My Father's Friend, Wm. Muir In Tarbolton Mill.
An honest man here lies at rest As e'er God with his image blest; The friend of man, the friend of truth, The friend of age, and guide of youth: Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, Few heads with knowledge so informed: If there's another world, he lives in bliss; If there is none, he made the best of this.
32. On a Celebrated Ruling Elder. *
Here Sowter *** in Death does sleep; To H-ll, if he's gane thither, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, He'll haud it weel thegither.
33. On a Noisy Polemic. *
Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes; O Death, it's my opinion, Thou ne'er took such a bleth'ran b-tch, Into thy dark dominion!
34. Epitaph On "Wee Johnie".
Hic Jacet wee Johnie. Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know That Death has murder'd Johnie; An' here his body lies fu' low; For saul he ne'er had ony.
35. Epitaph On My Ever Honoured Father.
O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious rev'rence, and attend! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, The tender father, and the gen'rous friend; The pitying heart that felt for human woe, The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride; The friend of man-to vice alone a foe; For "ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side."^1 [Footnote 1: Goldsmith. - R.B.]
36. For R. A. Esq.
Know thou, O stranger to the fame Of this much lov'd, much honor'd name! (For none that knew him need be told) A warmer heart Death ne'er made cold.
39. Address To The Unco Guid, Or The Rigidly Righteous.
См. Основные даты жизни Роберта Бернса.
My Son, these maxims make a rule, An' lump them aye thegither; The Rigid Righteous is a fool, The Rigid Wise anither: The cleanest corn that ere was dight May hae some pyles o' caff in; So ne'er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o' daffin. Solomon.-EcclesIast. ch. vii. verse 16. O ye wha are sae guid yoursel', Sae pious and sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark and tell Your neibours' fauts and folly! Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, Supplied wi' store o' water; The heaped happer's ebbing still, An' still the clap plays clatter. Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door For glaikit Folly's portals: I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences- Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances. Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, And shudder at the niffer; But cast a moment's fair regard, What maks the mighty differ; Discount what scant occasion gave, That purity ye pride in; And (what's aft mair than a' the lave), Your better art o' hidin. Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop! What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop! Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way; But in the teeth o' baith to sail, It maks a unco lee-way. See Social Life and Glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking, Till, quite transmugrified, they're grown Debauchery and Drinking: O would they stay to calculate Th' eternal consequences; Or your more dreaded hell to state, Damnation of expenses! Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Tied up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor Frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases; A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug, A treach'rous inclination- But let me whisper i' your lug, Ye're aiblins nae temptation. Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark, - The moving Why they do it; And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us; He knows each chord, its various tone, Each spring, its various bias: Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.
41. The Tarbolton Lasses.
If ye gae up to yon hill-tap, Ye'll there see bonie Peggy; She kens her father is a laird, And she forsooth's a leddy. There Sophy tight, a lassie bright, Besides a handsome fortune: Wha canna win her in a night, Has little art in courtin'. Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale, And tak a look o' Mysie; She's dour and din, a deil within, But aiblins she may please ye. If she be shy, her sister try, Ye'll maybe fancy Jenny; If ye'll dispense wi' want o' sense- She kens hersel she's bonie. As ye gae up by yon hillside, Speir in for bonie Bessy; She'll gie ye a beck, and bid ye light, And handsomely address ye. There's few sae bonie, nane sae guid, In a' King George' dominion; If ye should doubt the truth o' this- It's Bessy's ain opinion!
44. When first I came to Stewart Kyle. A Fragment.
См. Основные даты жизни Роберта Бернса.
My mind it was nae steady, Where e'er I gaed, where e'er I rade, A Mistress still I had ay: But when I came roun' by Mauchlin town, Not dreadin' any body, My heart was caught before I thought And by a Mauchlin Lady.
46. MY girl she 's airy, she 's buxom and gay. Song.
См. Основные даты жизни Роберта Бернса.
MY girl she 's airy, she 's buxom and gay, Her breath is as sweet as the blossoms in May; A touch of her lips it ravishes quite. She 's always good natur'd, good humor'd and free; She dances, she glances, she smiles with a glee; Her eyes are the lightenings of joy and delight: Her slender neck, her handsome waist, Her hair well buckl'd, her stays well lac'd, Her taper white leg with an et, and a, c, For her a, b, e, d, and her c, u, n, t, And Oh, for the joys of a long winter night!!!
47.Epistle To John Rankine,Enclosing Some Poems.
O Rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine, The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin! There's mony godly folks are thinkin, Your dreams and tricks Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin Straught to auld Nick's. Ye hae saw mony cracks an' cants, And in your wicked, drucken rants, Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Are a' seen thro'. Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it! That holy robe, O dinna tear it! Spare't for their sakes, wha aften wear it- The lads in black; But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Rives't aff their back. Think, wicked Sinner, wha ye're skaithing: It's just the Blue-gown badge an' claithing O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething To ken them by Frae ony unregenerate heathen, Like you or I. I've sent you here some rhyming ware, A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair; Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, I will expect, Yon sang ye'll sen't, wi' cannie care, And no neglect. Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! My muse dow scarcely spread her wing; I've play'd mysel a bonie spring, An' danc'd my fill! I'd better gaen an' sair't the king, At Bunkjer's Hill. 'Twas ae night lately, in my fun, I gaed a rovin' wi' the gun, An' brought a paitrick to the grun'- A bonie hen; And, as the twilight was begun, Thought nane wad ken. The poor, wee thing was little hurt; I straikit it a wee for sport, Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't; But, Deil-ma-care! Somebody tells the poacher-court The hale affair. Some auld, us'd hands had taen a note, That sic a hen had got a shot; I was suspected for the plot; I scorn'd to lie; So gat the whissle o' my groat, An' pay't the fee. But by my gun, o' guns the wale, An' by my pouther an' my hail, An' by my hen, an' by her tail, I vow an' swear! The game shall pay, o'er muir an' dale, For this, niest year. As soon's the clockin-time is by, An' the wee pouts begun to cry, Lord, I'se hae sporting by an' by For my gowd guinea, Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye For't in Virginia. Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame, Scarce thro' the feathers; An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers! It pits me aye as mad's a hare; So I can rhyme nor write nae mair; But pennyworths again is fair, When time's expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient.
48. Epitaph On John Rankine.
Ae day, as Death, that gruesome carl, Was driving to the tither warl' A mixtie-maxtie motley squad, And mony a guilt-bespotted lad- Black gowns of each denomination, And thieves of every rank and station, From him that wears the star and garter, To him that wintles in a halter: Ashamed himself to see the wretches, He mutters, glowrin at the bitches, "By God I'll not be seen behint them, Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them, Without, at least, ae honest man, To grace this damn'd infernal clan!" By Adamhill a glance he threw, "Lord God!" quoth he, "I have it now; There's just the man I want, i' faith!" And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath.
49. Reply To An Announcement By J. Rankine On His Writing To The Poet, That A Girl In That Part Of The Country Was With A Child To Him.
См. Основные даты жизни Роберта Бернса.
I am a keeper of the law In some sma' points, altho' not a'; Some people tell me gin I fa', Ae way or ither, The breaking of ae point, tho' sma', Breaks a' thegither. I hae been in for't ance or twice, And winna say o'er far for thrice; Yet never met wi' that surprise That broke my rest; But now a rumour's like to rise- A whaup's i' the nest!
50. Lines On The Author's Death Written With The Supposed View Of Being Handed To Rankine After The Poet's Interment.
He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead, And a green grassy hillock hides his head; Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed.
56. On Tam The Chapman.
As Tam the chapman on a day, Wi'Death forgather'd by the way, Weel pleas'd, he greets a wight so famous, And Death was nae less pleas'd wi' Thomas, Wha cheerfully lays down his pack, And there blaws up a hearty crack: His social, friendly, honest heart Sae tickled Death, they could na part; Sae, after viewing knives and garters, Death taks him hame to gie him quarters.
57. Epistle To J. Lapraik, An Old Scottish Bard.
April 1, 1785 While briers an' woodbines budding green, An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, An' morning poussie whiddin seen, Inspire my muse, This freedom, in an unknown frien', I pray excuse. On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin, To ca' the crack and weave our stockin; And there was muckle fun and jokin, Ye need na doubt; At length we had a hearty yokin At sang about. There was ae sang, amang the rest, Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, That some kind husband had addrest To some sweet wife; It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, A' to the life. I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel, What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel; Thought I "Can this be Pope, or Steele, Or Beattie's wark?" They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk. It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, An' sae about him there I speir't; Then a' that kent him round declar'd He had ingine; That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, It was sae fine: That, set him to a pint of ale, An' either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel, Or witty catches- 'Tween Inverness an' Teviotdale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an' graith, Or die a cadger pownie's death, At some dyke-back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith, To hear your crack. But, first an' foremost, I should tell, Amaist as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo-jingle fell; Tho' rude an' rough- Yet crooning to a body's sel' Does weel eneugh. I am nae poet, in a sense; But just a rhymer like by chance, An' hae to learning nae pretence; Yet, what the matter? Whene'er my muse does on me glance, I jingle at her. Your critic-folk may cock their nose, And say, "How can you e'er propose, You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, To mak a sang?" But, by your leaves, my learned foes, Ye're maybe wrang. What's a' your jargon o' your schools- Your Latin names for horns an' stools? If honest Nature made you fools, What sairs your grammars? Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, Or knappin-hammers. A set o' dull, conceited hashes Confuse their brains in college classes! They gang in stirks, and come out asses, Plain truth to speak; An' syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o' Greek! Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire, That's a' the learning I desire; Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire At pleugh or cart, My muse, tho' hamely in attire, May touch the heart. O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, Or Fergusson's the bauld an' slee, Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, If I can hit it! That would be lear eneugh for me, If I could get it. Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few; Yet, if your catalogue be fu', I'se no insist: But, gif ye want ae friend that's true, I'm on your list. I winna blaw about mysel, As ill I like my fauts to tell; But friends, an' folk that wish me well, They sometimes roose me; Tho' I maun own, as mony still As far abuse me. There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me, I like the lasses-Gude forgie me! For mony a plack they wheedle frae me At dance or fair; Maybe some ither thing they gie me, They weel can spare. But Mauchline Race, or Mauchline Fair, I should be proud to meet you there; We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, If we forgather; An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware Wi' ane anither. The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, An' kirsen him wi' reekin water; Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter, To cheer our heart; An' faith, we'se be acquainted better Before we part. Awa ye selfish, war'ly race, Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, Ev'n love an' friendship should give place To catch-the-plack! I dinna like to see your face, Nor hear your crack. But ye whom social pleasure charms Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, Who hold your being on the terms, "Each aid the others," Come to my bowl, come to my arms, My friends, my brothers! But, to conclude my lang epistle, As my auld pen's worn to the gristle, Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, Who am, most fervent, While I can either sing or whistle, Your friend and servant.
58. Second Epistle To J. Lapraik.
April 21, 1785 While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik, This hour on e'enin's edge I take, To own I'm debtor To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, For his kind letter. Forjesket sair, with weary legs, Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing thro' amang the naigs Their ten-hours' bite, My awkart Muse sair pleads and begs I would na write. The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie, She's saft at best an' something lazy: Quo' she, "Ye ken we've been sae busy This month an' mair, That trowth, my head is grown right dizzie, An' something sair." Her dowff excuses pat me mad; "Conscience," says I, "ye thowless jade! I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, This vera night; So dinna ye affront your trade, But rhyme it right. "Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts, In terms sae friendly; Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts An' thank him kindly?" Sae I gat paper in a blink, An' down gaed stumpie in the ink: Quoth I, "Before I sleep a wink, I vow I'll close it; An' if ye winna mak it clink, By Jove, I'll prose it!" Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither; Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, Let time mak proof; But I shall scribble down some blether Just clean aff-loof. My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp; Come, kittle up your moorland harp Wi' gleesome touch! Ne'er mind how Fortune waft and warp; She's but a bitch. She 's gien me mony a jirt an' fleg, Sin' I could striddle owre a rig; But, by the Lord, tho' I should beg Wi' lyart pow, I'll laugh an' sing, an' shake my leg, As lang's I dow! Now comes the sax-an'-twentieth simmer I've seen the bud upon the timmer, Still persecuted by the limmer Frae year to year; But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, I, Rob, am here. Do ye envy the city gent, Behint a kist to lie an' sklent; Or pursue-proud, big wi' cent. per cent. An' muckle wame, In some bit brugh to represent A bailie's name? Or is't the paughty, feudal thane, Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancing cane, Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane, But lordly stalks; While caps and bonnets aff are taen, As by he walks? "O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift, Then turn me, if thou please, adrift, Thro' Scotland wide; Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, In a' their pride!" Were this the charter of our state, "On pain o' hell be rich an' great," Damnation then would be our fate, Beyond remead; But, thanks to heaven, that's no the gate We learn our creed. For thus the royal mandate ran, When first the human race began; "The social, friendly, honest man, Whate'er he be- 'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, And none but he." O mandate glorious and divine! The ragged followers o' the Nine, Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine In glorious light, While sordid sons o' Mammon's line Are dark as night! Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, Their worthless nievefu' of a soul May in some future carcase howl, The forest's fright; Or in some day-detesting owl May shun the light. Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, To reach their native, kindred skies, And sing their pleasures, hopes an' joys, In some mild sphere; Still closer knit in friendship's ties, Each passing year! Epistle To William Simson Schoolmaster, Ochiltree. - May, 1785 I gat your letter, winsome Willie; Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie; Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly, And unco vain, Should I believe, my coaxin billie Your flatterin strain. But I'se believe ye kindly meant it: I sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire, sidelins sklented On my poor Musie; Tho' in sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd it, I scarce excuse ye. My senses wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to speel Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield, The braes o' fame; Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel, A deathless name. (O Fergusson! thy glorious parts Ill suited law's dry, musty arts! My curse upon your whunstane hearts, Ye E'nbrugh gentry! The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes Wad stow'd his pantry!) Yet when a tale comes i' my head, Or lassies gie my heart a screed- As whiles they're like to be my dead, (O sad disease!) I kittle up my rustic reed; It gies me ease. Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, She's gotten poets o' her ain; Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, But tune their lays, Till echoes a' resound again Her weel-sung praise. Nae poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measur'd style; She lay like some unkenn'd-of-isle Beside New Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan. Ramsay an' famous Fergusson Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon; Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings; While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon Naebody sings. Th' Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line: But Willie, set your fit to mine, An' cock your crest; We'll gar our streams an' burnies shine Up wi' the best! We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, Her banks an' braes, her dens and dells, Whare glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Frae Suthron billies. At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood But boils up in a spring-tide flood! Oft have our fearless fathers strode By Wallace' side, Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, Or glorious died! O, sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjoy; While thro' the braes the cushat croods With wailfu' cry! Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me, When winds rave thro' the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary gray; Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day! O Nature! a' thy shews an' forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! Whether the summer kindly warms, Wi' life an light; Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night! The muse, nae poet ever fand her, Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, Adown some trottin burn's meander, An' no think lang: O sweet to stray, an' pensive ponder A heart-felt sang! The war'ly race may drudge an' drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive; Let me fair Nature's face descrive, And I, wi' pleasure, Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Bum owre their treasure. Fareweel, "my rhyme-composing" brither! We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither: Now let us lay our heads thegither, In love fraternal: May envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal! While Highlandmen hate tools an' taxes; While moorlan's herds like guid, fat braxies; While terra firma, on her axis, Diurnal turns; Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, In Robert Burns. Postcript My memory's no worth a preen; I had amaist forgotten clean, Ye bade me write you what they mean By this "new-light," 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been Maist like to fight. In days when mankind were but callans At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gie; But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans, Like you or me. In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, Wore by degrees, till her last roon Gaed past their viewin; An' shortly after she was done They gat a new ane. This passed for certain, undisputed; It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it, An' ca'd it wrang; An' muckle din there was about it, Baith loud an' lang. Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk; For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk An' out of' sight, An' backlins-comin to the leuk She grew mair bright. This was deny'd, it was affirm'd; The herds and hissels were alarm'd The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd, That beardless laddies Should think they better wer inform'd, Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair, it gaed to sticks; Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks; An monie a fallow gat his licks, Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, Were hang'd an' brunt. This game was play'd in mony lands, An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands, That faith, the youngsters took the sands Wi' nimble shanks; Till lairds forbad, by strict commands, Sic bluidy pranks. But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an-stowe; Till now, amaist on ev'ry knowe Ye'll find ane plac'd; An' some their new-light fair avow, Just quite barefac'd. Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin; Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin; Mysel', I've even seen them greetin Wi' girnin spite, To hear the moon sae sadly lied on By word an' write. But shortly they will cowe the louns! Some auld-light herds in neebor touns Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons, To tak a flight; An' stay ae month amang the moons An' see them right. Guid observation they will gie them; An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, The hindmaist shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them Just i' their pouch; An' when the new-light billies see them, I think they'll crouch! Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter Is naething but a "moonshine matter"; But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter In logic tulyie, I hope we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulyie.
61. The Fornicator. A New Song.
См. Основные даты жизни Роберта Бернса.
Ye jovial boys who love the joys. The blissful joys of Lovers; Yet dare avow with dauntless brow, When th' bony lass discovers; pray draw near and lend an ear, And welcome in a Prater, For I've lately been on quarantine, A proven Fornicator. Before the Congregation wide I pass'd the muster fairly, My handsome Betsey by my side, We gat our ditty rarely; But my downcast eye by chance did spy What made my lips to water, Those limbs so clean where I, between, Commenc'd a Fornicator. With rueful face and signs of grace I pay'd the buttock-hire, The night was dark and thro' the park I could not but convoy her; A parting kiss, what could I less, My vows began to scatter, My Betsey fell-lal de dal lal lal, id 1 arfT I am a Fornicator. But for her sake this vow I make, And solemnly I swear it, That while I own a single crown, She's welcome for to share it; And my roguish boy his Mother's joy, And the darling of his Pater, For him I boast my pains and cost, Although a Fornicator. Ye wenching blades whose hireling jades Have tipt you off blue-boram, I tell ye plain, I do disdain To rank you in the Quorum; But a bony lass upon the grass To teach her esse Mater, And no reward but for regard, O that's a Fornicator. Your warlike Kings and Heros bold, Great Captains and Commanders; Your mighty Cesars fam'd of old, And Conquering Alexanders; fields they fought and laurels bought And bulwarks strong did batter, But still they grac'd our noble list And ranked Fornicator!!!
64. Man Was Made To Mourn: A Dirge. *
When chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare, One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spied a man, whose aged step Seem'd weary, worn with care; His face furrow'd o'er with years, And hoary was his hair. "Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?" Began the rev'rend sage; "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage? Or haply, prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth, with me to mourn The miseries of man. "The sun that overhangs yon moors, Out-spreading far and wide, Where hundreds labour to support A haughty lordling's pride;- I've seen yon weary winter-sun Twice forty times return; And ev'ry time has added proofs, That man was made to mourn. "O man! while in thy early years, How prodigal of time! Mis-spending all thy precious hours- Thy glorious, youthful prime! Alternate follies take the sway; Licentious passions burn; Which tenfold force gives Nature's law. That man was made to mourn. "Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood's active might; Man then is useful to his kind, Supported in his right: But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn; Then Age and Want-oh! ill-match'd pair- Shew man was made to mourn. "A few seem favourites of fate, In pleasure's lap carest; Yet, think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly blest: But oh! what crowds in ev'ry land, All wretched and forlorn, Thro' weary life this lesson learn, That man was made to mourn. "Many and sharp the num'rous ills Inwoven with our frame! More pointed still we make ourselves, Regret, remorse, and shame! And man, whose heav'n-erected face The smiles of love adorn, - Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn! "See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil; And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn. "If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave, By Nature's law design'd, Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty, or scorn? Or why has man the will and pow'r To make his fellow mourn? "Yet, let not this too much, my son, Disturb thy youthful breast: This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the last! The poor, oppressed, honest man Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn! "O Death! the poor man's dearest friend, The kindest and the best! Welcome the hour my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest! The great, the wealthy fear thy blow From pomp and pleasure torn; But, oh! a blest relief for those That weary-laden mourn!"
65. Song-Young Peggy Blooms.
Young Peggy blooms our boniest lass, Her blush is like the morning, The rosy dawn, the springing grass, With early gems adorning. Her eyes outshine the radiant beams That gild the passing shower, And glitter o'er the crystal streams, And cheer each fresh'ning flower. Her lips, more than the cherries bright, A richer dye has graced them; They charm th' admiring gazer's sight, And sweetly tempt to taste them; Her smile is as the evening mild, When feather'd pairs are courting, And little lambkins wanton wild, In playful bands disporting. Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe, Such sweetness would relent her; As blooming spring unbends the brow Of surly, savage Winter. Detraction's eye no aim can gain, Her winning pow'rs to lessen; And fretful Envy grins in vain The poison'd tooth to fasten. Ye Pow'rs of Honour, Love, and Truth, From ev'ry ill defend her! Inspire the highly-favour'd youth The destinies intend her: Still fan the sweet connubial flame Responsive in each bosom; And bless the dear parental name With many a filial blossom.
66. Song-Farewell To Ballochmyle.
The Catrine woods were yellow seen, The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee, Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, But nature sicken'd on the e'e. Thro' faded groves Maria sang, Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while; And aye the wild-wood ehoes rang, Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle! Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair; Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers, Again ye'll charm the vocal air. But here, alas! for me nae mair Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile; Fareweel the bonie banks of Ayr, Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!
76. Address To The Deil.
O Prince! O chief of many throned Pow'rs That led th' embattl'd Seraphim to war- Milton. O Thou! whatever title suit thee- Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, Clos'd under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches! Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor damned bodies be; I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, Ev'n to a deil, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, An' hear us squeel! Great is thy pow'r an' great thy fame; Far ken'd an' noted is thy name; An' tho' yon lowin' heuch's thy hame, Thou travels far; An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate, nor scaur. Whiles, ranging like a roarin lion, For prey, a' holes and corners tryin; Whiles, on the strong-wind'd tempest flyin, Tirlin the kirks; Whiles, in the human bosom pryin, Unseen thou lurks. I've heard my rev'rend graunie say, In lanely glens ye like to stray; Or where auld ruin'd castles grey Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, Wi' eldritch croon. When twilight did my graunie summon, To say her pray'rs, douse, honest woman! Aft'yont the dyke she's heard you bummin, Wi' eerie drone; Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees comin, Wi' heavy groan. Ae dreary, windy, winter night, The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, Wi' you, mysel' I gat a fright, Ayont the lough; Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight, Wi' wavin' sough. The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each brist'ld hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch, stoor "quaick, quaick," Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter'd like a drake, On whistlin' wings. Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags, They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags, Wi' wicked speed; And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, Owre howkit dead. Thence countra wives, wi' toil and pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; For oh! the yellow treasure's ta'en By witchin' skill; An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gane As yell's the bill. Thence mystic knots mak great abuse On young guidmen, fond, keen an' crouse, When the best wark-lume i' the house, By cantrip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit. When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, An' float the jinglin' icy boord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction, And 'nighted trav'llers are allur'd To their destruction. And aft your moss-traversin Spunkies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is: The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies Delude his eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise. When masons' mystic word an' grip In storms an' tempests raise you up, Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell! The youngest brither ye wad whip Aff straught to hell. Lang syne in Eden's bonie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, An' all the soul of love they shar'd, The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird, In shady bower;^1 Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog! Ye cam to Paradise incog, [Footnote 1: The verse originally ran: "Lang syne, in Eden's happy scene When strappin Adam's days were green, And Eve was like my bonie Jean, My dearest part, A dancin, sweet, young handsome quean, O' guileless heart."] An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, (Black be your fa'!) An' gied the infant warld a shog, 'Maist rui'd a'. D'ye mind that day when in a bizz Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz 'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Uzz Your spitefu' joke? An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' brak him out o' house an hal', While scabs and botches did him gall, Wi' bitter claw; An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd wicked scaul', Was warst ava? But a' your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce, Sin' that day Michael^2 did you pierce, Down to this time, Wad ding a Lallan tounge, or Erse, In prose or rhyme. An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, A certain bardie's rantin, drinkin, Some luckless hour will send him linkin To your black pit; But faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin, An' cheat you yet. But fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-ben! O wad ye tak a thought an' men'! Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken- Stil hae a stake: I'm wae to think up' yon den, Ev'n for your sake!
77. Scotch Drink.
Gie him strong drink until he wink, That's sinking in despair; An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, That's prest wi' grief and care: There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, Till he forgets his loves or debts, An' minds his griefs no more. Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7. Let other poets raise a fracas "Bout vines, an' wines, an' drucken Bacchus, An' crabbit names an'stories wrack us, An' grate our lug: I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, In glass or jug. O thou, my muse! guid auld Scotch drink! Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink, Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, In glorious faem, Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink, To sing thy name! Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, An' aits set up their awnie horn, An' pease and beans, at e'en or morn, Perfume the plain: Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, Thou king o' grain! On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, In souple scones, the wale o'food! Or tumblin in the boiling flood Wi' kail an' beef; But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, There thou shines chief. Food fills the wame, an' keeps us leevin; Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin, When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin; But, oil'd by thee, The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin, Wi' rattlin glee. Thou clears the head o'doited Lear; Thou cheers ahe heart o' drooping Care; Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, At's weary toil; Though even brightens dark Despair Wi' gloomy smile. Aft, clad in massy siller weed, Wi' gentles thou erects thy head; Yet, humbly kind in time o' need, The poor man's wine; His weep drap parritch, or his bread, Thou kitchens fine. Thou art the life o' public haunts; But thee, what were our fairs and rants? Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, By thee inspired, When gaping they besiege the tents, Are doubly fir'd. That merry night we get the corn in, O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in! Or reekin on a New-year mornin In cog or bicker, An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, An' gusty sucker! When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, O rare! to see thee fizz an freath I' th' luggit caup! Then Burnewin comes on like death At every chap. Nae mercy then, for airn or steel; The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel, Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, The strong forehammer, Till block an' studdie ring an reel, Wi' dinsome clamour. When skirling weanies see the light, Though maks the gossips clatter bright, How fumblin' cuiffs their dearies slight; Wae worth the name! Nae howdie gets a social night, Or plack frae them. When neibors anger at a plea, An' just as wud as wud can be, How easy can the barley brie Cement the quarrel! It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, To taste the barrel. Alake! that e'er my muse has reason, To wyte her countrymen wi' treason! But mony daily weet their weason Wi' liquors nice, An' hardly, in a winter season, E'er Spier her price. Wae worth that brandy, burnin trash! Fell source o' mony a pain an' brash! Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash, O' half his days; An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash To her warst faes. Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well! Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, Poor, plackless devils like mysel'! It sets you ill, Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, Or foreign gill. May gravels round his blather wrench, An' gouts torment him, inch by inch, What twists his gruntle wi' a glunch O' sour disdain, Out owre a glass o' whisky-punch Wi' honest men! O Whisky! soul o' plays and pranks! Accept a bardie's gratfu' thanks! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks Are my poor verses! Thou comes-they rattle in their ranks, At ither's a-s! Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! Scotland lament frae coast to coast! Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast May kill us a'; For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast Is ta'en awa? Thae curst horse-leeches o' the' Excise, Wha mak the whisky stells their prize! Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice! There, seize the blinkers! An' bake them up in brunstane pies For poor damn'd drinkers. Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still Hale breeks, a scone, an' whisky gill, An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, Tak a' the rest, An' deal't about as thy blind skill Directs thee best.III. Стихотворения 1786: Мосгил и Эдинбург
86. The Inventory.
In answer to a mandate by the Surveyor of the Taxes. Sir, as your mandate did request, I send you here a faithfu' list, O' gudes an' gear, an' a' my graith, To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith. Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, As ever drew afore a pettle. My hand-afore 's a guid auld has-been, An' wight an' wilfu' a' his days been: My hand-ahin 's a weel gaun fillie, That aft has borne me hame frae Killie.^2 An' your auld borough mony a time In days when riding was nae crime. But ance, when in my wooing pride I, like a blockhead, boost to ride, The wilfu' creature sae I pat to, (Lord pardon a' my sins, an' that too!) I play'd my fillie sic a shavie, She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie. My furr-ahin 's a wordy beast, As e'er in tug or tow was traced. The fourth's a Highland Donald hastle, A damn'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie! Foreby a cowt, o' cowts the wale, As ever ran afore a tail: Gin he be spar'd to be a beast, He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. Wheel-carriages I ha'e but few, Three carts, an' twa are feckly new; An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, Ae leg an' baith the trams are broken; I made a poker o' the spin'le, An' my auld mither brunt the trin'le. [Footnote 1: The "Inventory" was addressed to Mr. Aitken of Ayr, surveyor of taxes for the district.] [Footnote 2: Kilmarnock.-R. B.] For men, I've three mischievous boys, Run-deils for ranting an' for noise; A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t' other: Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother. I rule them as I ought, discreetly, An' aften labour them completely; An' aye on Sundays duly, nightly, I on the Questions targe them tightly; Till, faith! wee Davock's grown sae gleg, Tho' scarcely langer than your leg, He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling, As fast as ony in the dwalling. I've nane in female servant station, (Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation!) I hae nae wife-and thay my bliss is, An' ye have laid nae tax on misses; An' then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me, I ken the deevils darena touch me. Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted! My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, She stares the daddy in her face, Enough of ought ye like but grace; But her, my bonie, sweet wee lady, I've paid enough for her already; An' gin ye tax her or her mither, By the Lord, ye'se get them a' thegither! And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, Nae kind of licence out I'm takin: Frae this time forth, I do declare I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair; Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle; My travel a' on foot I'll shank it, I've sturdy bearers, Gude the thankit! The kirk and you may tak you that, It puts but little in your pat; Sae dinna put me in your beuk, Nor for my ten white shillings leuk. This list, wi' my ain hand I wrote it, The day and date as under noted; Then know all ye whom it concerns, Subscripsi huic, Robert Burns. Mossgiel, February 22, 1786.
96. Epitaph On A Henpecked Country Squire. *
As father Adam first was fool'd, (A case that's still too common,) Here lies man a woman ruled, The devil ruled the woman.
99. Extempore Epistle to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. *
To you, sir, this summons I've sent, Pray, whip till the pownie is freathing; But if you demand what I want, I honestly answer you-naething. Ne'er scorn a poor Poet like me, For idly just living and breathing, While people of every degree Are busy employed about-naething. Poor Centum-per-centum may fast, And grumble his hurdies their claithing, He'll find, when the balance is cast, He's gane to the devil for-naething. The courtier cringes and bows, Ambition has likewise its plaything; A coronet beams on his brows; And what is a coronet-naething. Some quarrel the Presbyter gown, Some quarrel Episcopal graithing; But every good fellow will own Their quarrel is a' about-naething. The lover may sparkle and glow, Approaching his bonie bit gay thing: But marriage will soon let him know He's gotten-a buskit up naething. The Poet may jingle and rhyme, In hopes of a laureate wreathing, And when he has wasted his time, He's kindly rewarded wi'-naething. The thundering bully may rage, And swagger and swear like a heathen; But collar him fast, I'll engage, You'll find that his courage is-naething. Last night wi' a feminine whig- A Poet she couldna put faith in; But soon we grew lovingly big, I taught her, her terrors were naething. Her whigship was wonderful pleased, But charmingly tickled wi' ae thing, Her fingers I lovingly squeezed, And kissed her, and promised her-naething. The priest anathemas may threat- Predicament, sir, that we're baith in; But when honour's reveille is beat, The holy artillery's naething. And now I must mount on the wave- My voyage perhaps there is death in; But what is a watery grave? The drowning a Poet is naething. And now, as grim death's in my thought, To you, sir, I make this bequeathing; My service as long as ye've ought, And my friendship, by God, when ye've naething.
105. Epistle To A Young Friend. $
May - 1786. I Lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae ither end Than just a kind memento: But how the subject-theme may gang, Let time and chance determine; Perhaps it may turn out a sang: Perhaps turn out a sermon. Ye'll try the world soon, my lad; And, Andrew dear, believe me, Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, And muckle they may grieve ye: For care and trouble set your thought, Ev'n when your end's attained; And a' your views may come to nought, Where ev'ry nerve is strained. I'll no say, men are villains a'; The real, harden'd wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law, Are to a few restricked; But, Och! mankind are unco weak, An' little to be trusted; If self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted! Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, Their fate we shouldna censure; For still, th' important end of life They equally may answer; A man may hae an honest heart, Tho' poortith hourly stare him; A man may tak a neibor's part, Yet hae nae cash to spare him. Aye free, aff-han', your story tell, When wi' a bosom crony; But still keep something to yoursel', Ye scarcely tell to ony: Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can Frae critical dissection; But keek thro' ev'ry other man, Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th' illicit rove, Tho' naething should divulge it: I waive the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But, Och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling! To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, Assiduous wait upon her; And gather gear by ev'ry wile That's justified by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train attendant; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent. The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, To haud the wretch in order; But where ye feel your honour grip, Let that aye be your border; Its slightest touches, instant pause- Debar a' side-pretences; And resolutely keep its laws, Uncaring consequences. The great Creator to revere, Must sure become the creature; But still the preaching cant forbear, And ev'n the rigid feature: Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, Be complaisance extended; An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended! When ranting round in pleasure's ring, Religion may be blinded; Or if she gie a random sting, It may be little minded; But when on life we're tempest driv'n- A conscience but a canker- A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, Is sure a noble anchor! Adieu, dear, amiable youth! Your heart can ne'er be wanting! May prudence, fortitude, and truth, Erect your brow undaunting! In ploughman phrase, "God send you speed," Still daily to grow wiser; And may ye better reck the rede, Then ever did th' adviser!
122. Farewell Song To The Banks Of Ayr.
"I composed this song as I conveyed my chest so far on my road to Greenock, where I was to embark in a few days for Jamaica. I meant it as my farewell dirge to my native land."-R. B. The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast, Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o'er the plain; The hunter now has left the moor. The scatt'red coveys meet secure; While here I wander, prest with care, Along the lonely banks of Ayr. The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn By early Winter's ravage torn; Across her placid, azure sky, She sees the scowling tempest fly: Chill runs my blood to hear it rave; I think upon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonie banks of Ayr. 'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore; Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear: But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierc'd with many a wound; These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonie banks of Ayr. Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, Her healthy moors and winding vales; The scenes where wretched Fancy roves, Pursuing past, unhappy loves! Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! My peace with these, my love with those: The bursting tears my heart declare- Farewell, the bonie banks of Ayr!
123. The Northern Lass.
Tho' cruel fate should bid us part, Far as the pole and line, Her dear idea round my heart, Should tenderly entwine. Tho' mountains, rise, and deserts howl, And oceans roar between; Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, I still would love my Jean.
124. A Fragment.
Chorus GREEN grow the rashes O, Green grow the rashes O, The lasses they hae wimble bores, The widows they hae gashes O. I In sober hours I am a priest; A hero when I'm tipsey, O; But I'm a king and ev'ry thing, When wi' a wanton Gipsey, O. Green grow &c. 2 'Twas late yestreen I met wi' ane, An' wow, but she was gentle, O! Ae han' she pat roun' my cravat, The tither to my p--- O. Green grow &c. 3 I dought na speak - yet was na fley'd- My heart play'd duntie, duntie, О; An' ceremony laid aside, I fairly fun' her c-ntie, O. - Green grow &c.
125.The Calf. To the Rev. James Steven, on his text, Malachi, ch. iv. vers. 2. "And ye shall go forth, and grow up, as Calves of the stall."
Right, sir! your text I'll prove it true, Tho' heretics may laugh; For instance, there's yourself just now, God knows, an unco calf. And should some patron be so kind, As bless you wi' a kirk, I doubt na, sir but then we'll find, Ye're still as great a stirk. But, if the lover's raptur'd hour, Shall ever be your lot, Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power, You e'er should be a stot! Tho' when some kind connubial dear Your but-and-ben adorns, The like has been that you may wear A noble head of horns. And, in your lug, most reverend James, To hear you roar and rowt, Few men o' sense will doubt your claims To rank amang the nowt. And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, Below a grassy hillock, With justice they may mark your head- "Here lies a famous bullock!"IV.Стихотворения 1787: Эдинбург; путешествие к границе; путешествие в горную Шотландию
173. Epigram On Parting With A Kind Host In The Highlands.
См. Основные даты жизни Роберта Бернса.
When Death's dark stream I ferry o'er, A time that surely shall come, In Heav'n itself I'll ask no more, Than just a Highland welcome.
174. Lines On The Fall Of Fyers Near Loch-Ness. Written with a Pencil on the Spot.
См. Основные даты жизни Роберта Бернса.
Among the heathy hills and ragged woods The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods; Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream resounds. As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep recoiling surges foam below, Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, And viewles Echo's ear, astonished, rends. Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show'rs, The hoary cavern, wide surrounding lours: Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils-
183. song-The Banks Of The Devon.
How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, With green spreading bushes and flow'rs blooming fair! But the boniest flow'r on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew; And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew! O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn; And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden or lawn! Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, And England triumphant display her proud rose: A fairer than either adorns the green valleys, Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.V.Стихотворения 1788: Эдинбург и Эллисланд
194. To The Weavers Gin Ye Go.
My heart was ance as blithe and free As simmer days were lang; But a bonie, westlin weaver lad Has gart me change my sang. Chorus.-To the weaver's gin ye go, fair maids, To the weaver's gin ye go; I rede you right, gang ne'er at night, To the weaver's gin ye go. My mither sent me to the town, To warp a plaiden wab; But the weary, weary warpin o't Has gart me sigh and sab. To the weaver's, &c. A bonie, westlin weaver lad Sat working at his loom; He took my heart as wi' a net, In every knot and thrum. To the weaver's, &c. I sat beside my warpin-wheel, And aye I ca'd it roun'; But every shot and evey knock, My heart it gae a stoun. To the weaver's, &c. The moon was sinking in the west, Wi' visage pale and wan, As my bonie, westlin weaver lad Convoy'd me thro' the glen. To the weaver's, &c. But what was said, or what was done, Shame fa' me gin I tell; But Oh! I fear the kintra soon Will ken as weel's myself! To the weaver's, &c.
229. The Banks Of Nith.
The Thames flows proudly to the sea, Where royal cities stately stand; But sweeter flows the Nith to me, Where Comyns ance had high command. When shall I see that honour'd land, That winding stream I love so dear! Must wayward Fortune's adverse hand For ever, ever keep me here! How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, Where bounding hawthorns gaily bloom; And sweetly spread thy sloping dales, Where lambkins wanton through the broom. Tho' wandering now must be my doom, Far from thy bonie banks and braes, May there my latest hours consume, Amang the friends of early days!
231. The Seventh of November.
The day returns, my bosom burns, The blissful day we twa did meet: Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd, Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. Than a' the pride that loads the tide, And crosses o'er the sultry line; Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, Heav'n gave me more-it made thee mine! While day and night can bring delight, Or Nature aught of pleasure give; While joys above my mind can move, For thee, and thee alone, I live. When that grim foe of life below Comes in between to make us part, The iron hand that breaks our band, It breaks my bliss-it breaks my heart!VI. Стихотворения 1789: Эллисланд
252. Come rede me, dame.
`Come rede me, dame, come tell me, dame, advise `My dame come tell me truly, `What length o' graith, when weel ca'd hame, equipment/well `Will sair a woman duly?' serve The carlin clew her wanton tail, old woman/scratched Her wanton tail sae ready --- I learn'd a sang in Annandale, Nine inch will please a lady. --- But for a koontrie c-nt like mine, country In sooth, we're nae sae gentle; We'll tak tway thumb-bread to the nine, two thumb's breadth And that's a sonsy p-ntle: lively O Leeze me on my Charlie lad, I'll ne'er forget my Charlie! Tway roarin handfu's and a daud, large lump He nidge't it in fu' rarely. --- squeezed But weary fa' the laithron doup, lazy rump And may it ne'er be thrivin! It's no the length that maks me loup, leap But it's the double drivin. --- Come nidge me, Tam, come nidge me, Tam, Come nidge me o'er the nyvel! navel Come lowse and lug your battering ram, let loose/pull And thrash him at my gyvel! hind parts Leeze me on is an untranslatable expression denoting great pleasure in or affection for a person or thing.
255. To William Stewart. Brownhill Monday even:
Dear Sir, In honest Bacon's ingle-neuk, Here maun I sit and think; Sick o' the warld and warld's fock, And sick, d-mn'd sick o' drink! I see, I see there is nae help. But still down I maun sink; Till some day, laigh enough, I yelp, 'Wae worth that cursed drink!' Yestreen, alas! I was sae fu', I could but yisk and wink; And now, this day, sair, sair I rue, The weary, weary drink.- Satan, I fear thy sooty claws, I hate thy brunstane stink, And ay I curse the luckless cause, The wicked soup o' drink.- In vain I would forget my woes In idle rhyming clink, For past redemption d-mn'd in Prose I can do nought but drink.- For you, my trusty, well-try'd friend May Heaven still on you blink; And may your life flow to the end, Sweet as a dry man's drink! ROBT. BURNS.
256. Строчки, написанные в церкви в Ламингтоне.*
Холодный ветер дует здесь, Едва ль студеней церкви есть. И проповедь сквозит зимой. Теплей не будет - я домой.
269. The Five Carlins. An Election Ballad.
There was five Carlins in the South, They fell upon a scheme, To send a lad to London town, To bring them tidings hame. Nor only bring them tidings hame, But do their errands there, And aiblins gowd and honor baith Might be that laddie's share. There was Maggy by the banks o' Nith, A dame wi' pride eneugh; And Marjory o' the mony Lochs, A Carlin auld and teugh. And blinkin Bess of Annandale, That dwelt near Solway-side; And whisky Jean, that took her gill, In Galloway sae wide. And auld black Joan frae Crichton Peel,^1 O' gipsy kith an' kin; Five wighter Carlins were na found The South countrie within. To send a lad to London town, They met upon a day; And mony a knight, and mony a laird, This errand fain wad gae. O mony a knight, and mony a laird, This errand fain wad gae; But nae ane could their fancy please, O ne'er a ane but twae. The first ane was a belted Knight, Bred of a Border band;^2 And he wad gae to London town, Might nae man him withstand. And he wad do their errands weel, And meikle he wad say; And ilka ane about the court Wad bid to him gude -day. [Footnote 1: Sanquhar.] [Footnote 2: Sir James Johnston of Westerhall.] The neist cam in a Soger youth,^3 Who spak wi' modest grace, And he wad gae to London town, If sae their pleasure was. He wad na hecht them courtly gifts, Nor meikle speech pretend; But he wad hecht an honest heart, Wad ne'er desert his friend. Now, wham to chuse, and wham refuse, At strife thir Carlins fell; For some had Gentlefolks to please, And some wad please themsel'. Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith, And she spak up wi' pride, And she wad send the Soger youth, Whatever might betide. For the auld Gudeman o' London court^4 She didna care a pin; But she wad send the Soger youth, To greet his eldest son.^5 Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale, And a deadly aith she's ta'en, That she wad vote the Border Knight, Though she should vote her lane. "For far-off fowls hae feathers fair, And fools o' change are fain; But I hae tried the Border Knight, And I'll try him yet again." Says black Joan frae Crichton Peel, A Carlin stoor and grim. "The auld Gudeman or young Gudeman, For me may sink or swim; [Footnote 3: Captain Patrick Millar of Dalswinton.] [Footnote 4: The King.] [Footnote 5: The Prince of Wales.] For fools will prate o' right or wrang, While knaves laugh them to scorn; But the Soger's friends hae blawn the best, So he shall bear the horn." Then whisky Jean spak owre her drink, "Ye weel ken, kimmers a', The auld gudeman o' London court, His back's been at the wa'; "And mony a friend that kiss'd his caup Is now a fremit wight; But it's ne'er be said o' whisky Jean- We'll send the Border Knight." Then slow raise Marjory o' the Lochs, And wrinkled was her brow, Her ancient weed was russet gray, Her auld Scots bluid was true; "There's some great folk set light by me, I set as light by them; But I will send to London town Wham I like best at hame." Sae how this mighty plea may end, Nae mortal wight can tell; God grant the King and ilka man May look weel to himsel.
272. The Whistle-A Ballad.
I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North. Was brought to the court of our good Scottish King, And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring. Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, The god of the bottle sends down from his hall- "The Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er, And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more!" Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, What champions ventur'd, what champions fell: The son of great Loda was conqueror still, And blew on the Whistle their requiem shrill. Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea; No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd; Which now in his house has for ages remain'd; Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, The jovial contest again have renew'd. Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw Craigdarroch, so famous for with, worth, and law; And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins; And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, Desiring Downrightly to yield up the spoil; Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, And once more, in claret, try which was the man. "By the gods of the ancients!" Downrightly replies, "Before I surrender so glorious a prize, I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More, And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er." Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe, or his friend; Said, "Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field," And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die ere he'd yield. To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, So noted for drowning of sorrow and care; But, for wine and for welcome, not more known to fame, Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame. A bard was selected to witness the fray, And tell future ages the feats of the day; A Bard who detested all sadness and spleen, And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. The dinner being over, the claret they ply, And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy; In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet. Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er: Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn, Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor did. Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, No longer the warfare ungodly would wage; A high Ruling Elder to wallow in wine; He left the foul business to folks less divine. The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend! Though Fate said, a hero should perish in light; So uprose bright Phoebus-and down fell the knight. Next uprose our Bard, like a prophet in drink:- "Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink! But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, Come-one bottle more-and have at the sublime! "Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, Shall heroes and patriots ever produce: So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!"
272А. Answer to an Invitation.
THE King's most humble servant, I Can scarcely spare a minute; But I'll be wi' you by an' bye, Or else the deil 's be in it.
277. A Song.
I'LL tell you a tale of a Wife, And she was a Whig and a Saunt; She liv'd a most sanctify'd life, But whyles she was fash'd wi' her -. - Fal lal &c. Poor woman! she gaed to the Priest, And till him she made her complaint; 'There 's naething that troubles my breast 'Sae sair as the sins o' my -.- 'Sin that I was herdin at harne, 'Till now I'm three score and ayont, 'I own it wi' sin and wi' shame 'I've led a sad life wi' my -.- He bade her to clear up her brow, And no be discourag'd upon 't; For holy gude women enow Were mony times waur't wi' their -.- Song. A stanza quoted casually in a letter to Ainslie, 29 July an alternative to II. 41-4: Then hey, for a merry good fellow, And hey, for a glass of good strunt; May never WE SONS OF APOLLO E'er want a good friend and a -. It's naught but Beelzebub's art, But that's the mair sign of a saunt, He kens that ye 're pure at the heart, Sae levels his darts at your -.- What signifies Morals and Works, Our works are no wordy a runt! It's Faith that is sound., orthodox, That covers the fauts o' your -.- Were ye o' the Reprobate race Created to sin and be brunt, O then it would alter the case If ye should gae wrang wij your -.- But you that is Called and Free Elekit and chosen a saunt, Will't break the Eternal Decree Whatever ye do wi' your -?- And now with a sanctify'd kiss Let's kneel and renew covenant: It's this-and it *s this-and it's this- That settles the pride o' your -.- Devotion blew up to a flame; No words can do justice upon 't; The honest auld woman gaed hame Rejoicing and clawin her -.- Then high to her memory charge; And may he who takes it affront, Still ride in Love's channel at large, And never make port in a -!!!VII. Стихотворения 1790: Эллисланд
282. Lines To A Gentleman, Who had sent the Poet a Newspaper, and offered to continue it free of Expense.
Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, And faith, to me, 'twas really new! How guessed ye, Sir, what maist I wanted? This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted, To ken what French mischief was brewin; Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin; That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, If Venus yet had got his nose off; Or how the collieshangie works Atween the Russians and the Turks, Or if the Swede, before he halt, Would play anither Charles the twalt; If Denmark, any body spak o't; Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't: How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin; How libbet Italy was singin; If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss; Or how our merry lads at hame, In Britain's court kept up the game; How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him! Was managing St. Stephen's quorum; If sleekit Chatham Will was livin, Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in; How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, If Warren Hasting's neck was yeukin; How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd. Or if bare arses yet were tax'd; The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls; If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, Was threshing still at hizzies' tails; Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, And no a perfect kintra cooser: A' this and mair I never heard of; And, but for you, I might despair'd of. So, gratefu', back your news I send you, And pray a' gude things may attend you. Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790.
284. I Love My Love In Secret.
My Sandy gied to me a ring, Was a' beset wi' diamonds fine; But I gied him a far better thing, I gied my heart in pledge o' his ring. Chorus.-My Sandy O, my Sandy O, My bonie, bonie Sandy O; Tho' the love that I owe To thee I dare na show, Yet I love my love in secret, my Sandy O. My Sandy brak a piece o' gowd, While down his cheeks the saut tears row'd; He took a hauf, and gied it to me, And I'll keep it till the hour I die. My Sand O, &c.
291. The Gard'ner Wi' His Paidle.*
When rosy May comes in wi' flowers, To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers, Then busy, busy are his hours, The Gard'ner wi' his paidle. The crystal waters gently fa', The merry bards are lovers a', The scented breezes round him blaw- The Gard'ner wi' his paidle. When purple morning starts the hare To steal upon her early fare; Then thro' the dews he maun repair- The Gard'ner wi' his paidle. When day, expiring in the west, The curtain draws o' Nature's rest, He flies to her arms he lo'es the best, The Gard'ner wi' his paidle.
292. On A Bank Of Flowers.
On a bank of flowers, in a summer day, For summer lightly drest, The youthful, blooming Nelly lay, With love and sleep opprest; When Willie, wand'ring thro' the wood, Who for her favour oft had sued; He gaz'd, he wish'd He fear'd, he blush'd, And trembled where he stood. Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath'd, Were seal'd in soft repose; Her lip, still as she fragrant breath'd, It richer dyed the rose; The springing lilies, sweetly prest, Wild-wanton kissed her rival breast; He gaz'd, he wish'd, He mear'd, he blush'd, His bosom ill at rest. Her robes, light-waving in the breeze, Her tender limbs embrace; Her lovely form, her native ease, All harmony and grace; Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, A faltering, ardent kiss he stole; He gaz'd, he wish'd, He fear'd, he blush'd, And sigh'd his very soul. As flies the partridge from the brake, On fear-inspired wings, So Nelly, starting, half-awake, Away affrighted springs; But Willie follow'd-as he should, He overtook her in the wood; He vow'd, he pray'd, He found the maid Forgiving all, and good.
294. A cauld frosty morning.
'TWAS past ane o'clock in a cauld frosty morning, When cankert November blaws over the plain, I heard the kirk-bell repeat the loud warning, As, restless, I sought for sweet slumber in vain: Then up I arose, the silver moon shining bright; Mountains and valleys appearing all hoary white; Forth I would go, amid the pale, silent night, And visit the Fair One, the cause of my pain.- Sae gently I staw to my lovely Maid's chamber, And rapp'd at her window, low down on my knee; Begging that she would awauk from sweet slumber, Awauk from sweet slumber and pity me: For, that a stranger to a' pleasure, peace and rest, Love into madness had fired my tortur'd breast; And that I should be of a' men the maist unblest, Unless she would pity my sad miserie! My True-love arose and whispered to me, (The moon looked in, and envy'd my Love's charms;) 'An innocent Maiden, ah, would you undo me!' I made no reply, but leapt into her arms: Bright Phebus peep'd over the hills and found me there; As he has done, now, seven lang years and mair: A faithfuller, constanter, kinder, more loving Pair, His sweet-chearing beam nor enlightens nor warms.
297. John Cope.
SIR John Cope rode the north right far, Yet ne'er a rebel he cam naura Until he landed at Dunbar Right early in a morning. Hey Johnie Cope are ye waulcing yet, Or are ye sleeping I would wit; O haste ye get up for the drums do beat, O fye Cope rise in the morning. He wrote a challenge from Dunbar, Come fight me Charlie an ye daur; If it be not by the chance of war I'll give you a merry morning. Hey Johnie Cope &c. When Charlie look'd the letter upon He drew his sword the scabbard from- 'So Heaven restore to me my own, 'I'll meet you, Cope, in the morning. 'Hey Johnie Cope &c. Cope swore with many a bloody word That he would fight them gun and sword. But he fled frae his nest like an ill scar'd bird, And Johnie he took wing in the morning. Hey Johnie Cope &c. It was upon an afternoon, Sir Johnie march'd to Preston town; He says, my lads come lean you down, And we'll fight the boys in the morning. Hey Johnie Cope &c. But when he saw the Highland lads Wi' tartan trews and white cokauds, Wi' swords and guns and rungs and gauds, O Johnie he took wing in the morning. Hey Johnie Cope &c. On the morrow when he did rise, He look'd between him and the skies; He saw them wi* their naked thighs, Which fear'd him in the morning. Hey Johnie Cope &c, O then he flew into Dunbar, Crying for a man of war; He thought to have pass'd for a rustic tar, And gotten awa in the morning. Hey Johnie Cope &c. Sir Johnie into Berwick rade, Just as the devil had been his guide; Gien him the warld he would na stay'd To foughten the boys in the morning. Hey Johnie Cope &c. Says the Berwickers unto Sir John, 0 what's become of all your men, In faith, says he, I dinna ken, 1 left them a' this morning. Hey Johnie Cope &c. Says Lord Mark Car, ye are na blate, To bring us the news o' your ain defeat; I think you deserve the back o1 the gate, Get out o' my sight this morning. Hey Johnie Cope &c.
301. My Heart's In The Highlands. *
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. Chorus.-My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. Farewell to the mountains, high-cover'd with snow, Farewell to the straths and green vallies below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods, Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. My heart's in the Highlands, &c.
306. The White Cockade.
MY love was born in Aberdeen, The boniest lad that e'er was seen, But now he makes our hearts fu* sad, He takes the field wi' his White Cockade. O he 's a ranting, roving lad, He is a brisk an' a bonny lad, Betide what may, I will be wed. And follow the boy wi' the White Cockade. I'll sell my rock, my reel, my tow, My gude gray mare and hawkit cow; To buy mysel a tartan plaid, To follow the boy wi' the White Cockade. Cho' O he 's a ranting, roving lad.
309. Sandy and Jockie. *
Twa bony lads were Sandy and Jockie; Jockie was lo'ed but Sandy unlucky; Jockie was laird baith of hills and of vallies, But Sandy was nought but the king o* gude fellows. Jockie lo'ed Madgie, for Madgie had money. And Sandie lo'ed Mary, for Mary was bony: Ane wedded for Love, ane wedded for treasure, So Jockie had siller, and Sandy had pleasure.
315. Scots' Prologue For Mr. Sutherland On his Benefit-Night, at the Theatre, Dumfries.
См. Основные даты жизни Роберта Бернса.
What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, How this new play an' that new sang is comin? Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted? Does nonsense mend, like brandy, when imported? Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame? For Comedy abroad he need to toil, A fool and knave are plants of every soil; Nor need he hunt as far as Rome or Greece, To gather matter for a serious piece; There's themes enow in Caledonian story, Would shew the Tragic Muse in a' her glory. - Is there no daring Bard will rise and tell How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell? Where are the Muses fled that could produce A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce? How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword 'Gainst mighty England and her guilty Lord; And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of Ruin! O for a Shakespeare, or an Otway scene, To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen! Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms: She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, To glut that direst foe-a vengeful woman; A woman, (tho' the phrase may seem uncivil,) As able and as wicked as the Devil! One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, But Douglasses were heroes every age: And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, A Douglas followed to the martial strife, Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Right succeeds, Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads! As ye hae generous done, if a' the land Would take the Muses' servants by the hand; Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them, And where he justly can commend, commend them; And aiblins when they winna stand the test, Wink hard, and say The folks hae done their best! Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caition, Ye'll soon hae Poets o' the Scottish nation Will gar Fame blaw until her trumpet crack, And warsle Time, an' lay him on his back! For us and for our Stage, should ony spier, "Whase aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here?" My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow- We have the honour to belong to you! We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like, But like good mithers shore before ye strike; And gratefu' still, I trust ye'll ever find us, For gen'rous patronage, and meikle kindness We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks: God help us! we're but poor-ye'se get but thanks.
316. Lament of Mary Queen of Scots.
Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea: Now Phcebus chears the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies; But nought can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies. Now laverocks wake the merry morn, Aloft on dewy wing; The merle, in his noontide bower, Makes woodland echoes ring; The mavis mild wi' many a note. Sings drowsy day to rest: In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi* care nor thrall opprest. Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae; The hawthorn 's budding in the glen, And milk-white is the slae: The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang; But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison strang. I was the Queen o' bonie France, Where happy I hae been; Fu' lightly rase I on the morn, As blythe lay down at e'en: And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, And mony a traitor there; Yet here I lie in foreign bands, And never ending care. But as for thee, thou false woman, My sister and my fae, Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword That thro' thy soul shall gae: The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee; Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e. My son! my son! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine! And may those pleasures gild thy reign, That ne'er wad blink on mine! God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, Or turn their hearts to thee: And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, Remember him for me!
320. The Gowden Locks Of Anna. Song.
Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, A place where body saw na; Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine The gowden locks of Anna. The hungry Jew in wilderness, Rejoicing o'er his manna, Was naething to my hinny bliss Upon the lips of Anna. Ye monarchs, take the East and West Frae Indus to Savannah; Gie me, within my straining grasp, The melting form of Anna: There I'll despise Imperial charms, An Empress or Sultana, While dying raptures in her arms I give and take wi' Anna! Awa, thou flaunting God of Day! Awa, thou pale Diana! Ilk Star, gae hide thy twinkling ray, When I'm to meet my Anna! Come, in thy raven plumage, Night, (Sun, Moon, and Stars, withdrawn a';) And bring an angel-pen to write My transports with my Anna! Postscript The Kirk an' State may join an' tell, To do sic things I maunna: The Kirk an' State may gae to hell, And I'll gae to my Anna. She is the sunshine o' my e'e, To live but her I canna; Had I on earth but wishes three, The first should be my Anna.
321. Тэм О'Шентер.
When chapman billies leave the street, pedlar lads And drouthy neebors neebors meet; thirsty neighbours As market-days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak the gate; take the road While we sit bousing at the nappy, boozing/ale An' getting fou and unco happy, drunk/mighty We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, bogs/pools/openings That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, found As he frae Ayr ae night did canter; one (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonnie lasses.) O Tam, had'st thou but been sae wise, As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice! to have taken She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, good-for-nothing A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; chattering/babbler That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was nae sober; every meal-grinding That ilka melder wi' the miller, Hugh Broun of Ardlochan Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; money That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, nag The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; John Smith of Carrick That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. Jean Kennedy, who kept She prophesied, that, late or soon, a pub in Kirkoswald Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon, Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk wizards/dark By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk. in decay since 1690 when Alloway parish was joined to Ayr Ah! gentle dames, it gars me greet, makes/weep To think how monie counsels sweet, How monie lengthen'd, sage advices The husband frae the wife despises! But to our tale:- Ae market-night, Tam had got planted unco right, just Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, fireside/blazing Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; foaming/ale And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, John Davidson, a cobbler His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie: Tam lo'ed him like a very brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter; And ay the ale was growing better: The landlady and Tam grew gracious Wi' secret favours, sweet and precious: The Souter tauld his queerest stories; told The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle, roar Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy. As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, loads The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: Kings may be blest but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! But pleasures are like poppies spread: You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white-then melts for ever; Or like the Borealis, race, Aurora or Northern Lights That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide; The hour approaches Tam maun ride: must That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, That dreary hour Tam mounts his beast in; And sic a night he taks the road in, such As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; would have blown The rattling showers rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd: That night, a child might understand, The Deil had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his grey mare Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, spanked/puddle Despising wind, and rain, and fire; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Now Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, staring Lest bogles catch him unawares: bogies Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry. ghosts/owls By this time he was cross the ford, Slaphouse Burn Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; smothered And past the birks and meikle stane, birches/big Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Cambusdoon Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. St. Mungo's Well Before him Doon pours all his floods; The doubling strorm roars thro' the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole; Near and more near the thunders roll: When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze, Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, every chink And loud resounded mirth and dancing. Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn! What dangers thou canst make us scorn! Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; twopenny beer Wi' usquabae, we'll face the Devil! whisky The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, brain Fair play, he car'd na deil's a boddle. farthing But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventur'd forward on the light; And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight! wondrous Warlocks and witches in a dance: Nae cotillion, brent new frae France, brand But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock-bunker in the east, window seat There sat Auld Nick, in shape o' beast; A tousie tyke, black, grim, and large, shaggy dog To gie them music was his charge: He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, made/squeal Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. ring Coffins stood round, like open presses, cupboards That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; And, by some devilish cantraip sleight, magic device Each in its cauld hand held a light: By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns; -irons Twa span-lang, wee, uncristen'd bairns; babies A thief new-cutted frae a rape --- rope Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; mouth Five tomahawks wi' bluid red-rusted; Five scymitars wi' murder crusted; A garter which a babe had strangled; A knife a father's throat had mangled --- Whom his ain son o' life bereft --- The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft; Wi, mair of horrible and awefu', Which even to name wad be unlawfu', As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, stared The mirth and fun grew fast and furious; The piper loud and louder blew. The dancers quick and quicker flew, They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, took hold Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, beldam/sweated/steamed And coost her duddies to the wark, stripped off clothes And linket at it in her sark! tripped/chemise Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans, these/girls A' plump and strappin' in their teens! Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, greasy flannel Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen! --- fine (1700 thread gauge) Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, These breeches That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, once I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies buttocks For ae blink o' the bonie burdies! one/glimpse/maidens But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Withered/abort Louping and flinging on a crummock, Leaping/cudgel I wonder did na turn thy stomach! But Tam kend what was fu' brawlie: knew/well There was ae winsome wench and walie, comely/choice That night enlisted in the core, crew Lang after kend on Carrick shore (For monie a beast to dead she shot, death An' perish'd monie a bonie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, barley And kept the country-side in fear). Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, short shift/coarse cloth That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie... proud Ah! little kend thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, bought Wi' twa pund Scots (`twas a' her riches) 3s4d sterling Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches! But here my Muse her wing maun cour, must curb Sic flights as far beyond her power: To sing how Nannie lap and flang (A souple jad she was and strang); And how Tam stood like ane bewitch'd, And thought his very een enrich'd; Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain, fidgeted/fondly And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main; jerked Till first ae caper, syne anither, then Tam tint his reason a' thegither, lost And roars out: `Weel done, Cutty-sark!' And in an instant all was dark; And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, fret When plundering herds assail their byke; hive As open pussie's mortal foes, hare's When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, When `Catch the thief!' resounds aloud: So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' monie an eldrich skriech and hollo. unearthly Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane of the brig, bridge There, at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross! But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake; not For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; aim But little wist she Maggie's mettle! Ae spring brought off her master hale, whole But left behind her ain grey tail: The carlin claught her by the rump, clawed And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man, and mother's son, take heed: Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, Or cutty sarks run in your mind, Think! ye may buy the joys o'er dear: Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
328. Banks o' borne Doon.
Ye flowery banks o' borne Doon, How can ye blume sae fair; How can ye chant, ye little birds^ And I sae ru' o1 care! Thou'll break ray heartj thou bonie bird That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause luve was true. Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate. Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon, To see the wood-bine twine? And ilka bird sang o* its love. And sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose Frae aff its thorny tree, And my fause Juver staw the rose. But left the thorn wi' me. Wi* lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Upon a morn in June: And sae I flourish'd on the morn, And sae was pu'd or noon!
334. Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn.
См. Основные даты жизни Роберта Бернса.
THE wind blew hollow frae the hills, By fits the sun's departing beam Look'd on the fading yellow woods That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream; Beneath a craigy steep, a Bard, Laden with years and meikle pain, In loud lament bewail'd his lord, Whom death had all untimely taen. He lean'd him to an ancient aik> Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years; His locks were bleached white with time. His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears; And as he touch'd his trembling harp, And as he tuned his doleful sang, The winds, lamenting thro' their caves. To echo bore the notes alang. 'Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, 'The reliques of the vernal quire; 'Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 'The honours of the aged year: 'A few short months, and glad and gay, 'Again ye'11 charm the ear and e'e; ' But nocht in all-revolving time 'Can gladness bring again to me. 'I am a bending aged tree, 'That long has stood the wind and rain; 'But now has come a cruel blast, 'And my last hald of earth is gane: 'Nae leaf o* mine shall greet the spring, 'Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; 'But I maun lie before the storm, And ithers plant them in my room. 'I've seen sae mony changefu' years, 'On earth I am a stranger grown; 'I wander in the ways of men, 'Alike unknowing and unknown: 'Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, 'I bear alane my lade o1 care, 'For silent, low, on beds of dust, 'Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 'And last, (the sum of a' my griefs!) 'My noble master lies in clay; 'The flower amang our barons bold, 'His country's pride, his country's stay: 'In weary being now I pine, 'For all the life of life is dead, 'And hope has left my aged ken, 'On forward wing for ever fled. 'Awake thy last sad voice, my harp! 'The voice of woe and wild despair! 'Awake, resound thy latest lay, 'Then sleep in silence evermair! 'And thou, my last, best, only friend, 'That fillest an untimely tomb, 'Accept this tribute from the Bard 'Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom. cln Poverty's low barren vale, 'Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round; 'Though oft I turned the wistful eye, 'Nae ray of fame was to be found: 'Thou found'st me, like the morning sun 'That melts the fogs in limpid air, 'The friendless Bard and rustic song, 'Became alike thy fostering care. 'O! why has Worth so short a date? 'While villains ripen grey with time! 'Must thou, the noble, generous, great, 'Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime! 'Why did I live to see that day? 'A day to me so full of woe? 'O! had I met the mortal shaft 'Which laid my benefactor low! 'The bridegroom may forget the bride, 'Was made his wedded wife yestreen; 'The monarch may forget the crown 'That on his head an hour has been; 'The mother may forget the child 'That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; 'But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 'And a' that thou hast done for me!'
IX. Стихотворения 1792: Дамфриз
342. Hughie Graham .
Our lords are to the mountains gane, A hunting o' the fallow deer; And they hae gripet Hughie Graham For stealing o' the bishop's mare.— And they hae tied him hand and foot, And led him up thro' Stirling town; The lads and lasses met him there, Cried, Hughie Graham thou art a loun. О lowse my right hand free, he says, And put my braid sword in the same; He 's no in Stirling town this day, Daur tell the tale to Hughie Graham.— Up then bespake the brave Whitefoord, As he sat by the bishop's knee; Five hundred white stots I'11 gie you If ye'Jl let Hughie Graham gae free.— О haud your tongue, the bishop says, And wij your pleading let me be; For tho* ten Grahams were in his coat, Hughie Graham this day shall die.— Up then bespake the fair Whitefoor'd, As she sat by the bishop's knee; Five hundred white pence I'll gie you, If ye'11 gie Hughie Graham to me.— О haud your tongue now lady fair, And wi' your pleading let me be; Altho' ten Grahams were in his coat, Its for my honor he maun die.— They've taen him to the gallows knowe, He looked to the gallows tree, Yet never color left his cheek, Nor ever did he blin' his e'e.— At length he looked round about, To see whatever he could spy; And there he saw his auld father, And he was weeping bitterly.— О haud your tongue, my father dear, And wi' your weeping let it be; Thy weeping 's sairer on my heart, Than a' that they can do to me.— And ye may gie my brother John My sword that's bent in the middle clear, And let him come at twelve o'clock And see me pay the bishop's mare.— And ye may gie my brother James My sword that 's bent in the middle brown; And bid him come at four o'clock, And see his brother Hugh cut down.— Remember me to Maggy my wife, The niest time ye gang o'er the moor; Tell her, she staw the bishop's mare, Tell her, she was the bishop's whore. And ye may tell my kith and kin, I never did disgrace their blood; And when they meet the bishop's cloak, To mak it snorter by the hood.—
358. Geordie. An old ballad.
There was a battle in the north, And nobles there was many, And they hae kill'd Sir Charlie Hay, And they laid the wyte on Geordie. О he has written a lang letter, He sent it to his lady; Ye maun cum up to Enbrugh town To see what words o' Geordie. When first she look'd the letter ons She was baith red and rosy; But she had na read a word but twa, ТШ she wallow't like a lily. Gar get to me my gude grey steed, My menzie a' gae wi' me; For I shall neither eat nor drink, Till Enbrugh town shall see me. And she has mountit her gude grey steed, Her menzie a' gaed wi' her; And she did neither eat nor drink ТШ Enbrugh town did see her. And first appear'd the fatal block, And syne the aix to head him; And Geordie cumin down the stair. And bands o' aim upon him. But tho' he was chain'd in fetters strang, O' aim and steel sae heavy, There was na ane in a' the court, Sae bra5 a man as Geordie. О she *s down on her bended knee, I wat she 's pale and weary, 0 pardon, pardon, noble king, And gie me back my Dearie! 1 hae born seven sons to my Geordie dear, The seventh ne'er saw his daddie: О pardon, pardon, noble king, Pity a waefii' lady! Gar bid the headm-man mak haste! Our king reply'd fu' lordly: О noble king, tak a' that's mine, But gie me back my Geordie. The Gordons cam and the Gordons ran, And they were stark and steady; And ay the word amang them a' Was, Gordons keep you ready. An aged lord at the king's right hand Says, noble king, but hear me; Gar her tell down five thousand pound And gie her back her Dearie. Some gae her marks, some gae her crowns, Some gae her dollars many; And she 's tell'd down five thousand pound, And she 's gotten again her Dearie. She blinkit blythe in her Geordie's face, Says, dear I've bought thee, Geordie: But there sud been bluidy bouks on the green, Or I had tint my laddie. He claspit her by the middle sma', And he kist her lips sae rosy: The fairest flower o' woman-kind Is my sweet, bonie Lady!
359. Я вечером летним.$
As I was a wand'ring ae midsummer e'enin, The pipers and youngsters were makin their game, Amang them I spyed my faithless fause luver. Which bled a' the wounds o' my dolour again. — Chorus Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' him; I may be distress'd, but I winna complain: I'll flatter my fancy I may get anither, My heart it shall never be broken for ane.— I could na get sleepin till da win, for greetin; The tears trkkl'd down like the hail and the rain: Had I na got greetm, my heart wad a broken, For Oh, luve forsaken 's a tormenting pain! .- Weel, since he has &c. Although he has left me for greed o' the siller, I dinna envy him the gains he can win: I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my sorrow, Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him .— Weel, since he has &c.
368. Johnie Blunt.
THERE liv'd a man in yonder glen, And John Blunt was his name, Q. He mate gude maut, and he brews gude ale, And he bears a wondrous fame, O.— The wind blew in the hallan ae night, Fu' sneil out o'er the moor, O; 'Rise up, rise up, auld Luckie, he says, 'Rise up and bar the door, O, — They made a paction tween them twa, They made it firm and sure, O, Whae'er sud speak the foremost word, Should rise and bar the door., O— Three travellers that had tint their gate, As thro' the hills they foor, O, They airted by the line o' light Fu' straught to Johnie Blunt's door, O— They haurl'd auld Luckie out o' her bed, And laid her on the floor, O; But never a word auld Luckie wad say, For barrin o' the door, O.— 'Ye've eaten my bread, ye hae druken my ale, 'And ye'll mak my auld wife a whore, O—' Aha, Johnie Blunt! ye hae spoke the first word, Get up and bar the door, O,—
372. A Posie .
O luve will venture in where it daur na wcel be seen, O hive will venture in where wisdom ance has been; But I will down yon river rove, amang the woods sae green, And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.— The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year; And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my Dear, For she is the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.— I'll pu' the budding rose when Phebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss o3 her sweet, bonie mou; The hyacinth 's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue. And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.— The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there; The daisy 's for simplicity and unaffected air, And a' to be a posy to my ain dear May.— The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller grey, Where like an aged man it stands at break o' day; But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.— The woodbine I will pu' when the e'emng star is near, And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een sae clear; The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.— I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' luve, And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' abuve, That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remuve, And this will be a posie to my ain dear May,—
379. Bonie Bell.
THE smiling spring comes in rejoicing, And surly winter grimly flies; Now crystal clear are the falling waters, And bonny blue are the sunny skies. Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the morningj The ev'ning gilds the Ocean's swell; All Creatures joy in the sun's returning, And I rejoice in my Bonie Bell. The flowery Spring leads sunny Summer, And yellow Autumn presses near, Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, Till smiling Spring again appear. Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, Old Time and Nature their changes tell, But never ranging, still unchanging, I adore my Bonie Bell.
382. O can ye labor Lea.$
Chorus O can ye labor lea, young man, O can ye labor lea? Gae back the gate ye came again, Ye 'se never scorn me.— I fee'd a man at martinmass, Wi' airle-pennies three; But a' the faute I had to him, He could na labor lea.— O can ye &c. O clappin 's gude in Febarwar, An kissin 's sweet in May; But what signifies a young man's love, An't dinna last for ay — O can ye &c. O kissin is the key o' luve, An ciappin is the lock, An makin-of 's the best thing, That e'er a young Thing got — O can ye &c.
384. As I went out ae may morning.
As I went out ae may morning, A may morning it chanc'd to be; There I was aware of a weelfar'd Maid Cam linkin' o'er the lea to me.— 0 but she was a weelfar'd maid, The boniest lass that's under the sun; 1 spier'd gin she could fancy me. But her answer was, I am too young.— To be your bride I am too young, To be your loun wad shame my kin. So therefore pray young man begone, For you never, never shall my favor win.— But amang yon birks and hawthorns green, Where roses blaw and woodbines hing, O there I learn'd my bonie lass That she was not a single hour too young.— The lassie blush'd, the lassie sigh'd, And the tear stood twinklin in her e'e; O kind Sir, since ye hae done me this wrang, It's pray when will ye marry me.— It's of that day tak ye nae heed, For that's ae day ye ne'er shall see; For ought that pass'd between us twa, Ye had your share as weel as me.— She wrong her hands, she tore her hair, She cried out most bitterlie, O what will I say to my mammies When I gae hame wi' my big bellie! O as ye maut, so maun ye brew, And as ye brew, so maun ye tun; But come to my arms, my ae bonie lass, For ye never shall rue what ye now hae done!—
392. On the Lea-rig.
When o'er the hill the eastern star Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo, And owsen frae the furrowed field Return sae dowf and weary O: Down by the burn where scented birks Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind Dearie O. At midnight hour, in mirkest glen, I'd rove and ne'er be irie O, If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, My ain kind Dearie O: Altho' the night were ne'er sae wet, And I were ne'er sae weary O, I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind Dearie O. The hunter lo'es the morning sun, To rouse the mountain deer, my jo, At noon the fisher takes the glen, Adown the burn to steer, my jo; Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey, It maks my heart sae cheary O To meet thee on the lea-rig My ain kind Dearie O,X. Стихотворения 1793: Дамфриз
409. Logan Water. $
O, Logan, sweetly didst thou glide. The day I was my Willie's bride; And years sinsyne hae o'er us run, Like Logan to the simmer sun. But now thy flowery banks appear Like drumlie Winter, dark and drear, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes,— Again the merry month o' May Has made our hills and vallies gay; The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, The bees hum round the breathing flowers. Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye, And Evening's tears are tears of joy: My soul, delightless, a' surveys, While Willie 's far frae Logan braes.— Within yon milkwhite hawthorn bush, Amang her nestlings sits the thrush; Her faithfu' Mate will share her toil, Or wi' his song her cares beguile: But, I wi' my sweet nurslings here, Nae Mate to help, nae Mate to cheer. Pass widowed nights and joyless days, While Willie 's far frae Logan braes.— O wae upon you, Men o' State, That brethren rouse in deadly hate! As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, Sae may it on your heads return! How can your flinty hearts enjoy The widow's tears, the orphan's cry: But soon may Peace bring happy days And Willie, name to Logan braes!
413. O were my Love yon Lilack fair.
O were my Love yon Lilack fair, Wi' purple blossoms to the Spring; And I, a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing. How I wad mourn, when it was torn By Autumn wild, and Winter rude! But I wad sing on wanton wing, When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd. -[O gin my love were yon red rose, That grows upon the castle wa'! And I mysel' a drap o' dew, Into her bonnie breast to fa'! Oh, there beyond expression blesst I'd feast on beauty a* the night; Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fley'd awa by Phebus' light!]
433. On Gaptn. W- - R-dd-ck of C-rb-ton-.
Light lay the earth on Billy's breast, His chicken heart so tender: But build a castle on his head, His scull will prop it under.—XI. Стихотворения 1794: Дамфри
447. Banks ofCree.
HERE is the glen, and here the bower, AH underneath the birchen shade; The village-bell has told the hour, O what can stay my lovely maid. "Tis not Maria's whispering call; Tis but the balmy breathing gale, Mixt with some warbler's dying fall The dewy star of eve to hail. It is Maria's voice I hear; So calls the woodlark in the grove His little, faithful Mate to chear, At once 'tis music—and 'tis love. And art thou come! and art thou true! O welcome dear to love and me! And let us all our vows renew Along the flowery banks of Cree.
460. LET not Woman e'er complain. Song-
LET not Woman e'er complain Of inconstancy in love; Let not Woman e'er complain, Fickle Man is apt to rove: Look abroad through Nature's range., Nature's mighty law is CHANGE; Ladies would it not be strange Man should then a monster prove. Mark the winds, and mark the skies; Oceans ebb, and oceans flow: Sun and moon but set to rise; Round and round the seasons go: Why then ask of silly Man, To oppose great Nature's plan? We'll be constant while we can— You can be no more, you know.
461. Winter of Life.
BUT lately seen in gladsome green The woods rejoiced the day, Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers In double pride were gay; But now our joys are fled— On winter blasts awa! Yet maiden May, in rich array, Again shall bring them a'.— But ray white pow—nae kindly thowe Shall melt the snaws of Age; My trunk of eild, but buss or beild, Sinks in Time's wintry rage.— Oh, Age has weary days! And nights o' sleepless pain! Thou golden time o' Youthfu' prime, Why comes thou not again!
478. On Mr. Burke by an opponent and a friend to Mr. Hastings.
Oft I have wonder'd that on Irish ground No poisonous Reptile ever has been found: Revealed the secret stands of great Nature's work: She preserved her poison to create a Burke!XII. Стихотворения 1795-1796: Дамфриз
502. Scotch Song.
Now Spring has clad the grove in green, And strewed the lea wi' flowers: The furrow'd waving corn is seen Rejoice in fostering showers. While ilka thing in Nature join Their sorrows to forego. O why thus all alone are mine The weary steps o' woe.— The trout within yon wimpling burn That glides, a silver dart, And safe beneath the shady thorn Defies the angler's art: My life was ance that careless stream, That wanton trout was I; But Love wi' unrelenting beam Has scorch'd my fountains dry.— The little floweret's peaceful lot In yonder cliff that grows. Which save the linnet's flight, I wot, Nae ruder visit knows, Was mine; till Love has o'er me past, And blighted a' my bloom, And now beneath the withering blast My youth and joy consume.— The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs And climbs the early sky, Winnowing blythe her dewy wings In morning's rosy eye; As little reckt I sorrow's power, Until the flowery snare O' witching love, in luckless hour, Made me the thrall o' care,— O had my fate been Greenland snows, Or Afric's burning zone, Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes3 So Peggy ne'er I'd known! The wretch whase doom is, hope nae mair, What tongue his woes can tell; Within whase bosom save Despair Nae kinder spirits dwell.—
517. Poem on Life Addressed to Colonel De Peyster, Dumfries, 1796.
My honored colonel, deep I feel Your interest in the Poet's weal; Ah! now sma' heart hae I to speel The steep Parnassus, Surrounded thus by bolus pill, And potion glasses. O what a canty warld were it, Would pain and care, and sickness spare it; And fortune favor worth and merit, As they deserve: (And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret; Syne wha would starve?) Dame life, tho' fiction out may trick her, And in paste gems and frippery deck her; Oh! nickering, feeble, and unsicker I've found her still, Ay wavering like the willow wicker, 'Tween good and ill. Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, Watches, like bawd'rons by a rattan, Our sinfu' saul to get a claute on Wi' felon ire; Syne, whip! His tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on, He 's off like fire. Ah! Nick, ah Nick it is na fair, First shewing us the tempting ware, Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare. To put us daft; Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare O' hell's damned waft. Poor man the flie, aft bizzes bye, And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, Thy auld damned elbow yeuks wi' joy, And hellish pleasure; Already in thy fancy's eye. Thy sicker treasure. Soon heels o'er gowdie! in he gangs, And like a sheep-head on a tangs, Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs And murdering wrestle, As dangling in the wind he hangs A gibbet's tassel. But lest you think I am uncivil, To plague you with this draundng drivel, Abjuring a' intentions evil, I quat my pen: The Lord preserve us frae the devil! Amen! Amen!
530. Gnm Grizzle.
Grim Grizzel was a mighty Dame Weel kend on Cluden-side: Grim Grizzel was a mighty Dame Of meikle fame and pride. When gentles met in gentle bowers And nobles in the ha', Grim Grizzel was a mighty Dame, The loudest o' them. a'. Where lawless Riot rag'd the night And Beauty durst na gang, Grim Grizzel was a mighty Dame Wham nae man e'er wad wrang. Nor had Grim Grizzel skill alane What bower and ha1 require; But she had skill, and meikle skill., In barn and eke in byre. Ae day Grim Grizzel walked forth, As she was wont to do, Alang the banks o1 Cluden fair, Her cattle for to view. The cattle sh— o'er hill and dale As cattle will incline, And sair it grieved Grim Grizzel's heart Sae muckle muck to tine. And she has ca'd on John o' Clods, Of her herdsmen the chief, And she has ca'd on John o' Clods, And tell'd him a' her grief:— 'Now wae betide thee., John o' Clods! I gie thee meal and fee, And yet sae meikle muck ye tine Might a' be gear to me! 'Ye claut my byre, ye sweep my byre, The like was never seen; The very chamber I lie in Was never half sae clean. 'Ye ca' my kye adown the loan And there they a' discharge: My Tammy's hat, wig, head and a' Was never half sae large! 'But mind my words now, John o' Clods, And tent me what I say: My kye shall sh— ere they gae out, That shall they ilka day. 'And mind my words now, John o' Gods, And tent now wha ye serve; Or back ye *se to the Colonel gang, Either to steal or starve.5 Then John o' Clods he looked up And syne he looked down; He looked east, he looked west, He looked roun' and roun1. His bonnet and his rownantree club Frae either hand did fa'; Wi' lifted een and open mouth He naething said at a'. At length he found his trembling tongue, Within his mouth was fauld:— 'Ae silly word frae me, madam, Gin I daur be sae bauld. 'Your kye will at nae bidding sh—, Let me do what I can; Your kye will at nae bidding sh— Of onie earthly man. 'Tho' ye are great Lady Glaur-hole, For a' your power and art Tho' ye are great Lady Glaur-hole, They winna let a fart.' 'Now wae betide thee, John O' Clods! An ill death may ye die! My kye shall at my bidding sh—, And that ye soon shall see. Then she 's ta'en Hawkie by the tail. And wrung wi' might and main, Till Hawkie rowted through the woods Wi' agonising pain. 'Sh—, sh—, ye bitch,' Grim Grizzel roar'd, Till hill and valley rang; 'And sh—, ye bitch,' the echoes roar'd Lincluden wa's amang,
531. Burns grace at Kirkudbright.
Some have meat and cannot eat. Some can not eat that want it: But we have meat and we can eat, Sae let the Lord be thankit.
535. My bottle is a holy pool.
My bottle is a holy pool, That heals the wounds o' care an' dool; And pleasure is a wanton trout, An ye drink it, ye'll find him out.
542. Epitaph on D------C------.
HERE lies in earth a root of H-11, Set by the Deil's ain dibble. This worthless body d-----d bimsel, To save the L—d the trouble.
544. Эпиграмма.
Здесь покоится честный малый, Обвел бы дьявола, пожалуй.
552. On Andrew Turner.
In Se'enteen Hunder 'n Forty-Nine The Deil gat stuff to mak a swine, An' coost it in a comer; But wilily he chang'd his plan, An' shap'd it something like a man, An' ca'd it Andrew Turner.
553. The Toadeater.
No more of your titled acquaintances boast, Nor of the gay groups you have seen; A crab louse is but a crab louse at last, Tho' stack to the ____ of a Queen,
XIII. Последние песни для Шотландского музыкального музея
559. Had I the wyte, had I the wyte.
Had I the wyte, had I the wyte. Had I the wyte, she bade me; She watch'd me by the hie-gate-side, And up the loan she shaw'd me; And when I wad na venture in, A coward loon she ca'd me: Had Kirk and State been in the gate, I lighted when she bade me.— Sae craftilie she took me ben, And bade me mak nae clatter; 'For our ramgunshoch, glum Goodman 'Is o'er ayont the water:' Whae'er shall say I wanted grace, When I did kiss and dawte her, Let him be planted in my place, Syne, say, I was a fautor.— Could I for shame, could I for shame, Could I for shame refus'd her; And wad na Manhood been to blame, Had I unkindly us'd her: He claw'd her wi' the ripplin-kame, And blae and bluidy bruis'd her; When sic a husband was frae hame, What wife but wad excus'd her? I dighted ay her een sae blue, And bann'd the cruel randy; And weel I wat her willin mou Was e'en like succarcandie. At glomin-shote it was, I wat, I lighted on the Monday; But I cam thro' the Tiseday's dew To wanton Willie's brandy.—
565. Leezie Lindsay.
WILL ye go to the Highlands Leezie Lindsay, Will ye go to the Highlands wi' me; Will ye go to the Highlands Leezie Lindsay, My pride and my darling to be.
575. My rantin Laddie.
Aften hae I play'd at the cards and the dice, For the love of a bonie rantm laddie; But now I maun sit in my father's kitchen neuk, Below a bastart babie.— For my father he will not me own, And my mother she neglects me, And a' my friends hae lightlyed me, And their servants they do slight me.— But had I a servant at my command, As aft-times I've had many, That wad rin wi' a letter to bonie Glenswood, Wi* a letter to my rantin laddie.— Oh, is he either a laird, or a lord, Or is he but a cadie, That ye do him ca' sae aften by name, Your bonie, bonie rantin laddie.— Indeed he is baith a laird and a lord, And he never was a cadie; But he is the Earl o' bonie Aboyne, And he is my rantin laddie.— O ye 'se get a servant at your command, As art-times ye've had many, That sail rin wi' a letter to bonie Glenswood, A letter to your rantin laddie.— When lord Aboyne did the letter get, 0 but he blinket bonie; But or he had read three lines of it, 1 think his heart was sorry.— O wha is he daur be sae bauld, Sae cruelly to use my lassie? * * * For her father he will not her know, And her mother she does slight her, And a' her friends hae lightlied her, And their servants they neglect her.— Go raise to me my five hundred men, Make haste and make them ready; With a milkwhite steed under every ane, For to bring hame my lady.— As they cam in thro Buchan shire, They were a company bonie, With a gude claymore in every hand, And O, but they shin'd bonie.—
576. O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet.
O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, As the mirk night o' December; For sparkling was the rosy wine. And private was the chamber: And dear was she, I dare na name, But I will ay remember.— And dear was she, I dare na name, But I will ay remember.— And here 's to them, that, like oursel, Can push about the jorum; And here 's to them that wish us weel, May a' that's gude watch o'er them: And here 's to them, we dare na tell, The dearest o' the quorum.— And here's to them, we dare na tell, The dearest oj the quorum.—
596. 0 guide ale comes and gude ale goes.
0 guide ale comes and gude ale goes, Gude ale gars me sell my hose, Sell my hose and pawn my shoon, Gude ale keeps my heart aboon. 1 had sax owsen in a pleugh, They drew a' weel eneugh, I said them a', ane by ane, Gude ale keeps my heart aboon. Gude ale hauds me bare and busy, Gars me moop wi1 the servant hizzie, Stand F the stool when I hae done, Gude ale keeps my heart aboon. O gude ale comes and gude ale goes, Gude ale gars me sell my hose; Sell my hose and pawn my shoon, Gude ale keeps my heart aboon.XIV. Стихотворения без дат или с сомнительными датами
606. Epitaph for H-----L-----, Esq., of L-.
HERE lyes Squire Hugh------ Ye harlot crew, Come raak' your water on him, I'm sure that he weel pleas'd would be To think ye pish'd upon him.
607. A Ballad.
While Prose-work and rhymes Are hunted for crimes, And things are — the devil knows how; Aware o' my rhymes. In these kittle times, The subject I chuse is a------. Some cry, Constitution! Some cry, Revolution! And Politicks kick up a rowe; But Prince and Republic, Agree on the Subject, No treason is in a good------. Th' Episcopal lawn, And Presbyter band, Hae lang been to ither a cowe; But still the proud Prelate, And Presbyter zealot Agree in an orthodox------. Poor Justice, 'tis hinted— 111 natur'dly squinted, The Process—but mum—we'll allow- Poor Justice has ever For C—t had a favor, While Justice could tak a gude------. Now fill to the brim— To her, and to him, Wha willingly do what they dow; And ne'er a poor wench Want a friend at a pinch) Whase failing is only a------.
608. Muirland Meg.
Amang our young lassies there 's Muirland Meg, She'll beg or she work, and she'll play or she beg, At thretteen her maidenhead flew to the gate, And the door o' her cage stands open yet.— Her kittle black een they wad thirl you thro', Her rose-bud lips cry, kiss me now; The curls and links o' her bonie black hair, Wad put you in mind that the lassie has mair.— An armfu' o' love is her bosom sae plump, A span o' delight is her middle sae jimp; A taper, white leg, and a thumpin thie, And a fiddle near by, an ye play a wee! Love 's her delight, and kissin 's her treasure; She'll stick at nae price, an ye gie her gude measure. As lang 's a sheep-fit, and as girt's a goose-egg, And that's the measure o' Muirland Meg.
609. The Patriarch.
As honest Jacob on a night, Wi' his beloved beauty, Was duly laid on wedlock's bed, And noddin' at his duty; Tal de dal, &c. ____ 'How lang, she says, ye fumblin' wretch, 'Will ye be f-----gat it? 'My eldest wean might die of age, 'Before that ye could get it. 'Ye pegh, and grane, and groazle there, 'And mak an unco splutter, 'And I maun ly and thole you here, 'And fient a hair the better.' Then he, in wrath, put up his graith, 'The deevil 's in the hizzie! 'I m-w you as I rn-w the lave, 'And night and day I'm bisy. 'I've bairn'd the servant gypsies baith, 'Forbye your titty Leah; 'Ye barren jad, ye put me mad, 'What mair can I do wi' you. 'There 's ne'er a m-w I've gi'en the lave, 'But ye ha'e got a dizzen; 'And d—n'd a ane ye 'se get again, 'Altho' your c—t should gizzen.' Then Rachel calm, as ony lamb, She claps him on the waulies, Quo1 she, 'ne'er fash a woman's clash., 'In trowth, ye m-w me braulies. 'My dear 'tis true, for mony a m~w, 'I'm your ungratefu' debtor; 'But ance again, I dinna ken, 'We'll aiblens happen better.' Then honest man! wi' little wark, He soon forgat his ire; The patriarch, he coost the sark, And up and till 't like fire!!!
610. The Trogger.
As I cam down by Annan side, Intending for the border, Amang the Scroggie banks and braes, Wha met I but a trogger. He laid me down upon my back, I thought he was but jokin, Till he was in me to the hilts, 0 the deevil tak sic troggin! What could I say, what could I do, 1 bann'd and sair misca'd him, But whiltie-whaltie gae'd his a—e The mair that I forbade him: He stell'd his foot against a stane, And doubl'd ilka stroke in. Till I gaed daft amang his hands, O the deevil tak sic troggin! Then up we raise, and took the road, And in by Ecclefechan, Where the brandy-stoup we gart it clink, And the strang-beer ream the quech in. Ee down the bents o' Bonshaw braes, We took the partin' yokin'; But I've claw'd a sairy c—t synsine, 0 the deevil tak sic troggin!
611. Godly Girzie.
THE night it was a haly night, The day had been a haly day; Kilmarnock gleam'd wi' candle light, As Girzie hameward took her way, A man o' sin, ill may he thrive! And never haly-meeting see! Wi' godly Girzie met belyve, Amang the Cragie hills sae hie. The chiel' was wight, the chiel' was stark;, He wad na wait to chap nor ca', And she was faint wi' haly wark, She had na pith to say him na. But ay she glowr'd up to the moon, And ay she sigh'd most piouslie; 'I trust my heart's in heaven aboon, 'Whare'er your sinfu' p------e be.'
612. A jolly Gauger.
THERE was a jolly gauger, a gauging he did ride, And he has met a beggar down by yon river side. An' we'll gang nae mair a rovin' wi' ladies to the wine, When a beggar wi' her meal-pocks can ridge her tail sae fine. Amang the broom he laid her; amang the broom sae green, And he 's fa'n to the beggar, as she had been a queen. An' we'll gang, &c. My blessings on thee, laddie, thou 's done my turn sae weel, Wilt thou accept, dear laddie, my pock and pickle meal? An' we'll, &c. Sae blyth the beggar took the bent, like ony bird in spring, Sae blyth the beggar took the bent, and merrily did sing, An' we'll, Sac, My blessings on the gauger, o' gangers he 's the chief. Sic kail ne'er crost my kettle, nor sic a joint o' beef. An' we'll, &c.
613. Who'llm~w me now? *
O wha'll m-w me now, my jo, An' wha'll rn-w me now: A sodger wi' his bandileers Has bang'd my belly fu'. O, I hae tint my rosy cheek, Likewise my waste sae sma'; O wae gae by the sodger lown, The sodger did it a'. An' wha'll, &c. Now I maun thole the scornfu' sneer O' mony a saucy quine; When, curse upon her godly face! Her c—t 's as merry's mine. An' wha'll, &c. Our dame hauds up her wanton tail, As due as she gaes he; An' yet misca's [a] young thing, The trade if she but try. An' wha'll, &c. Our dame can lae her ain gudeman, An' m-w for glutton greed; An' yet misca's a poor thing That's m—n' for its bread. An' wha'll, &c. Alake! sae sweet a tree as love, Sic bitter fruit should bear! Alake, that e'er a merry a—e, Should draw a sa'tty tear. An'wha'll, &c.
614. Saw ye my Maggie?
1 Saw ye my Maggie? Saw ye my Maggie? Saw ye my Maggie? Comin oer the lea? 2 What mark has your Maggie, What mark has your Maggie, What mark has your Maggie, That ane may ken her be? 3 My Maggie has a mark, Ye'U find it in the dark, It's in below her sark, A little aboon her knee. 4 What wealth has your Maggie? What wealth has your Maggie, What wealth has your Maggie, In tocher, gear, or fee? 5 My Maggie has a treasure, A hidden mine o' pleasure, I'll howk it at my leisure, It's alane for me. 6 How loe ye your Maggy, How loe ye your Maggy, How loe ye your Maggy, An loe nane but she? 7 Ein that tell our wishes, Eager glowing kisses, Then diviner blisses, In holy ecstacy!— 8 How meet you your Maggie, How meet you your Maggie, How meet you your Maggie, When nane 's to hear or see ? 9 Heavenly joys before me, Rapture trembling o'er me, Maggie I adore thee, On my bended knee!!!
615. Gie the lass her Fairin'.
O gie the lass her fairin', lad, O gie the lass her fairin', An' something else she'll gie to you, That *s waly worth the wearin'; Syne coup her o'er amang the creels, When ye hae taen your brandy, The mair she bangs the less she squeels, An' hey for houghmagandie.
616. The Book-Worms.
Through and through the inspired leaves, Ye maggots, make your windings; But, oh! respect his lordship's taste, And spare his golden bindings.
617. On Marriage.
THAT hackney'd judge of human life, The Preacher and the King, Observes: 'The man that gets a wife He gets a noble thing. But how capricious are mankind, Now loathing, now desirous! We married men, how oft we find The best of things will tire us!
618. Here 's a bottle and an honest friend.
Here 's a bottle and an honest friend! What wad ye wish for mair, man? Wha kens, before his life may end, What his share may be of care, man. Then catch the moments as they fly, And use them as ye ought, man:— Believe me, happiness is shy, And comes not ay when sought, man.
619. Fragment.
Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, Adown her neck and bosom hing; How sweet unto that breast to cling, And round that neck entwine her! Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, O, what a feast, her bonie mou'! Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, A crimson still diviner.
620. A Tale.
'T was where the birch and sounding thong are plyed, The noisy domicile of Pedant-pride; Where Ignorance her darkening vapour throws, And Cruelty directs the thickening blows; Upon a time, Sir Abece the great, In all his pedagogic powers elate, His awful Chair of state resolves to mount, And call the tembling Vowels to account.— First enter'd A; a grave, broad, solemn Wight, But ah! deform'd, dishonest to the sight! His twisted head look'd backward on his way, And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, AI! Reluctant, E stalk'd in; with piteous race The jostling tears ran down his honest face! That name, that well-worn name, and all his own, Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne! The Pedant stifles keen the Roman sound Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound; And next the title following close behind., He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. The cob-webb'd, Gothic dome resounded, Y! In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply: The Pedant swung his felon cudgel round, And knock'd the groaning Vowel to the ground! In rueful apprehension enter'd O, The wailing minstrel of despairing woe; Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art: So grim, deform'd, with horrors, entering U, His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew! As trembling U stood staring all aghast, The Pedant hi his left hand clutch'd him fast; In helpless infant's tears he dipp'd his right, Baptiz'd him EU, and kick'd him from his sight.
621. The Henpecked Husband.
Cursed be the man, the poorest wretch in Hfe, The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife, Who has no will but by her high permission; Who has not sixpence but in her possession; Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell; Who dreads a curtain-lecture worse than hell. Were such the wife had fallen to my part, I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart; I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, I'd fctss her maids, and kick the perverse b—h.
622. On a dog of Lord Eglintom. у жены.
I never barked when out of season, I never bit without a reason; I ne'er insulted weaker brother, Nor wronged by force or fraud another. We brutes are placed a rank below; Happy for man could he say so.
623. Epitaph.
Lo worms enjoy the seat of bliss Where Lords and Lairds afore did kiss.
624. Delia.
FAIR the face of orient day, Fair the tints of op'ning rose; But fairer still my Delia dawns, More lovely far her beauty blows. Sweet the Lark's wild-warbled lay, Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; But, Delia, more delightful still, Steal thine accents on mine ear. The flower-enamour'd busy Bee The rosy banquet loves to sip; Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip; But, Delia, on thy balmy lips Let me, no vagrant insect, rove! O let me steal one liquid kiss! For Oh! my soul is parch'd with love!
626. Broom Besoms. *
I maun hae a wife, whatsoe'er she be; An she be a woman, that's eneugh for me. Chorus Buy broom besoms! wha will buy them now; Fine heather ringers, better never grew, If that she be bony, I shall think her right: If that she be ugly, where 's the odds at night? Buy broom &c. O, an she be young, how happy shall I be! If that she be auld, the sooner she will die. Buy broom &c. If that she be fruitfu', O! what joy is there! If she should be barren, less will be my care. Buy broom &c. If she like a drappie, she and I'll agree; If she dinna like it, there *s the mair for me. Buy broom &c. Be she green or gray; be she black or fair; Let her be a woman,, I shall seek nae mair. Buy broom &c.
627. Broom Besoms (B).
YOUNG and souple was I, when I lap the dyke; Now I'm auld and frail, I douna step a syke. Buy broom &c. Young and souple was I, when at Lautherslack, Now I'm auld and frail, and lie at Nansie's back. Buy broom &c. Had she gien me butter, when she gae me bread, I wad looked baulder, wi' my beld head. Buy broom &c.
628. Fragment.
Now health forsakes that angel face, Nae mair my Dearie smiles; Pale sickness withers ilka grace, And a' my hopes beguiles: The cruel Powers reject the prayer I hourly mak for theej Ye Heavens how great is my despair, How can I see him die!
629. Epigram on Rough Roads.
I'M now arrived—thanks to the gods!— Thro' pathways rough and muddy, A certain sign that makin roads Is no this people's study: Altho' I'm not wi' Scripture cram'd, I'm sure the Bible says That heedless sinners shall be damn'd, Unless they mend their ways.
630. On the Duchess of Gordon^s Reel Dancing.
She kiltit up her kittle weel To show her bonie cutes sae sma', And walloped about the reel, The lightest louper o' them a'! While some, like slav'ring, doited stots Stoit'ring out thro* the midden dub, Fankit their heels amang their coats And gait the floor their backsides rub; Gordon, the great, the gay, the gallant, Skip't like a maukin owre a dyke: Deil tak me, since I was a callant, Gif e'er my een beheld the like!
631. To the Memory of the Unfortunate Miss Burns, 1791.
Like to a fading flower in May, Which Gardner cannot save, So Beauty must, sometime, decay And drop into the grave. Fair Burns, for long the talk and toast Of many a gaudy Beau, That Beauty has forever lost That made each bosom glow. Think, fellow sisters, on her fate! Think, think how short her days ! Oh! think, and, e'er it be too late, Turn from your evil ways. Beneath this cold, green sod lies dead That once bewitching dame That fired Edina's lustful sons, And quench'd their glowing flame.
632. Bonnie Peg.
As I cam in by our gate-end, As day was waxen weary, O wha cam tripping down the street But bonnie Peg, my dearie! Her air sae sweet, and shape complete, Wi' nae proportion wanting, The queen of love did never move Wi' motion mair enchanting. Wi' linked hands we took the sands Adown yon winding river; And, oh! that hour, and broomy bower, Can I forget it ever!— C&tera desunt.Переводы из других поэтов
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Что значит жизнь, коль рой забот Ее нам видеть не дает? Терять мы время не готовы Как овцы или же коровы. Не видим мы, как белки скачут И средь травы орехи прячут. И не видна нам рек краса, Что звезд полны, как небеса. И нет нам времени заметить Всей красоты на белом свете. Не хватит времени у нас, Чтоб созерцать улыбку глаз. Как жизнь бедна, коль рой забот Ее нам видеть не дает!В.Шекспир
У глаз любимой сходства с солнцем нет.
У глаз любимой сходства с солнцем нет. Коралл куда краснее губ ее, А снег белей, чем шеи бледный цвет, Не черен локон, что спадает на плечо. Букеты роз я видел: алых, белых, красных, Но нет, не розы на ее щеках горят, А сладкий аромат духов прекрасных Совсем не тот, что милой аромат. Бываю голосом я очарован нежным, Хотя звук музыки бывает и нежней, По облакам богини ходят белоснежным, Но этого нельзя сказать о ней. И все ж, о небо, нет во мне сомнений, Она прекрасна без таких сравнений.И.В.Гете
Лесной царь.
Кто скачет так поздно в ночной тишине? Отец с малым сыном летят на коне. Ребенка он крепко к себе прижимает, Теплом своих рук он его согревает. "Мой сын ты чего так пугаешься зря?" "Отец ты не видишь Лесного царя? Лесного царя, что в короне с хвостом?" "Мой сын, то клубится туман над прудом". "Прекрасный ребенок, идем же со мной! Мы в чудные игры сыграем с тобой. Как много цветов на морском берегу, В парчу и во злато одеть я могу". "Отец мой, Лесной царь со мной говорит, Большие богатства мне громко сулит!" "Тебе, о, мой мальчик, ничто не грозит, То ветер в опавшей листве шелестит". "Дитя тебя ждет тишина и уют, И дочки мои с нетерпением ждут. Они хоровод затевают ночной, Станцуют они и споют пред тобой". "Отец мой, теперь я поклясться готов, Там пляшут русалки меж темных кустов!" "Мой мальчик, напрасно пугаешься ты, То старые ветлы стоят у воды". "Ты нравишься мне, о дитя, потому Тебя я к себе непременно возьму". "Отец мой, отец мой, меня он схватил, Царь леса меня за собой потащил!" Отец испугался, быстрей поскакал, Руками покрепче ребенка прижал. Но с горем въезжает на двор он родной: В руках его сын, но уже не живой.Лонгфелло.
Стрела и песня.
Пустил стрелу я в поднебесье. Она упала, где - не весть мне. Полет стремителен так был, Что взгляд его не уследил. Пропел я песню в поднебесье. Она исчезла, где - не весть мне. Напев пленителен так был, Что слух за ней не уследил. Прошли года. Однажды в чаще Стрела нашлась в дубу торчащей. А песнь - с конца и до начала Мне в сердце друга прозвучала.
Послесловие переводчика.
Автор вышеприведенных переводов впервые повстречался с Робертом Бернсом в домашней библиотеке. Там была книга Р.Райт-Ковалевой из серии "Жизнь замечательных людей". Запало в душу одно из лучших его стихотворений "Ночлег в пути", которое поэт написал в последний, самый тяжкий год своей жизни. Позднее имя Роберта Бернса встретилось среди длинного списка курсовых работ, предложенных студентам иняза. И жребий был брошен. С тех пор Роберт Бернс и его переводчик не расставались. Огромную роль в их дальнейшем знакомстве сыграла научный руководитель курсовой работы, доцент кафедры английского языка Людмила Васильевна Севрюгина. Она превосходный знаток английской литературы и Р.Бернс является ее любимейшим поэтом. Свою любовь и знания она до сих пор передает новым поколениям студентов. По ее совету были написаны письма одному из переводчиков Бернса Виктору Федотову, крупнейшему советскому бернсисту Серафиму Андреевичу Орлову, а также Иммануэлю Самойловичу Маршаку, сыну великого поэта и лучшего из переводчиков Бернса, который являлся членом комиссии и хранителем музея литературноготворчества Самуила Яковлевича Маршака. И вскоре пришло приглашение. 25 ноября 1972 года юный студент посетил квартиру- музей С.Я.Маршака, где все сохранялось так, как было при жизни поэта. Иммануэль Самойлович тепло и любезно принял студента и подробнорассказал обо всем, что было связано с работой его отца над переводами Бернса. Первый перевод С.Я.Маршак из Бернса относитсяк 1924 г. Свою работу над переводами он начал еще будучи студентом. Он начал публиковать переводы Бернса в конце тридцатых годов и продолжал его переводить до последних лет жизни. Было так же получено письмо от профессора Горьковского университета им. Н.И.Лобачевского Серафима Андреевича Орлова, который занимался творчеством Роберта Бернса еще в довоенные годы. В 1933, 1942 и 1943 годах были опубликованы его серьезные труды:"Крестьянский вопрос в поэзии Бернса", "Бернс и фольклор","Бернс в русских переводах". В своем письме Серафим Андреевич сообщал, что "группа ученых Горьковского государственного университета им. Н.И.Лобачевского приступила к работе по созданию книги "Русский Бернс" - энциклопедии, дающей представление о жизни и творчестве поэта, его эпистолярном наследии, переводах Бернса на русский язык и языки народностей СССР (украинский, белорусский и др.),ролии значении советского литературоведения в познании творчества великого поэта Шотландии, отображении поэзии Бернса в музыке,живописи и т.д. Нам хотелось бы отметить Ваше личное участиев деле популяризации поэзии Бернса в нашей стране, определить место, какое работа над Бернсом занимает в Вашей личной творческой деятельности... Я прошу разрешения занести Ваше имя в энциклопедию, которую готовлю к изданию...". В апреле 1972 года в древний город Владимир приезжала туристическая группа преподавателей из Великобритании. Автор переводов познакомился с Дональдом Мэтью, профессором истории из небольшого городка Дархэм, который находится на границе с Шотландией. Завязалась переписка. Дональд предложил прислать на память какую-нибудь книгу. Поскольку поэтические пристрастия переводчика были определены, он попросил выслать книгу стихов Бернса. Некоторое время ответа не было, наконец пришло письмо, в котором Дональд извинялся за задержку, основной причиной которой было то, что в Дархэме он не нашелнаиболее полного издания стихов Роберта Бернса, и он вынужден был посетить Оксфорд. Вскоре книга, которая стала настольной, была получена. Из нее были переведены около 130-ти стихов, и эта работа продолжается. Потом на некоторое время автор переводов разминулся с Бернсом, но в 1979 году он вновь пишет С.А.Орлову и посылает два блокнота переводов из Бернса. Серафим Андреевич высказал свое мнение по поводу этих переводов: "Буду откровенен, искренно понравился перевод "Тэма"(321), отлично переведен ряд эпиграмм (542,553), интересны "Сэнди и Джон"(309), "Торговец"(610),"Акцизный"(612) и многое другое. Очень неплохо передается сатирическое начало творений Бернса. Менее удачен "Джон Ячменное Зерно", "Молитва перед едой"(531),. Стихи о Мэгги(614),"сделаны" отлично. Прошу разрешения взять один (два) Ваших перевода - в качестве образца, я постараюсь включить их в хрестоматию, которую, кажется, заканчиваю". Прошло еще двадцать лет, и переводчик вновь вспомнил о своем давнем обещании С.А. Орлову перевести всего Бернса. А это 632 стихотворения. Маршак успел перевести 216 произведений. (Из энциклопедии Бернса) "Стихотворения Бернса переведены на большинство европейских языков, в том числе на современный английский. В своей работе "Роберт Бернс на других языках" (1896) Вильям Джек провел критическое сравнение нескольких стихотворений на различных языках. Английские переводы, выполненные Вильямом Кин Сеймуром, тем не менее, предполагают, что переводить разговорную речь и текстуру бернсовских шотландских сатир вероятно невозможно, и что часто смысл уплывает из соответствующего контекста, либо кажется бедным или так отличается от оригинала, что едва ли может вообще отражать дух Бернса. Переводами, получившими широчайшее распространение, безусловно, являются русские переводы Самуила Маршака." То, что удалось, а может быть и не совсем, перевести автору - перед Вами. Как сказал один из биографов Р.Бернса, пусть каждая новая книга о Бернсе будет камешком в кургане его славы.
ОСНОВНЫЕ ДАТЫ ЖИЗНИ РОБЕРТА БЕРНСА.
1750 Отец поэта, Вильям Бернес (родился в Кинкардиншире в 1721) поселяется в Эйршире и берет в аренду ферму в 7 акров в Аллоуэй. 1757 Вильям Бернс женится на Агнес Броун из Мэйбола(1732-1820) 1759 25 января. Роберт Бернс родился в Аллоуэй. 1765 Роберт и его брат Гильберт обучаются у Мэрдока в деревенской школе организованной их отцом и соседями. 1766 Вильям Бернс переезжает в Маунт Олифант, на ферму в 70 акров недалеко от Аллоуэй. 1768 Мэрдок покидает Аллоуэй. Вильям Бернс берется за образование своих сыновей. 1774 Бернс работает на ферме; впервые "грешит рифмой". см."Я прежде девушку любил." 1775 Бернс в школе Хаг Роджера в Кэркосвальд, изучает математику. 1777 Вильям Бернс переезжает в Лохли, Тарболтон, на ферму в 130 акров на северном берегу Эйра. 1780 Бернсом и другими основан Тарболтонский клуб холостяков "для облегчения жизни человеку,утомленному жизненными трудами". 1781 Бернс работает в Эрвине, в льночесальной мастерской "с большими перспективами устройства жизни". 1782 Бернс возвращается в Лохли после пожара в мастерской Эрвина. 1783 апрель. Начата первая "Записная книжка". Вильяму Бернсу прислан исполнительный лист. Роберт и Гильберт берут в аренду Моссгил, ферму в 118 акров недалеко от Мохлина, " в качестве убежища для семьи на черный день". 1784 13 февраля Вильям Бернес умирает. Роберт переезжает в Моссгил "с полной решимостью" и "становится известным в округе как создатель рифм"; становится членом Тарболтонской масонской ложи. 1785 22 мая. Рождение Элизабет, дочери от служанки его матери Бэтти Патон см."Милей, веселей я девчонки не знаю." см."Строчки,адресованные вышеупомянутому Дж.Ранкину" см."Прелюбодей. Новая песня." Бернс встречает Джин Армор (см."Когда приеду в Стюарт Кайл.") Бернс начинает "озадачиваться кальвинизмом с таким жаром и непочтительностью", что "разражается потоком ереси" (сМ.Обращение к Очень Хорошим). 1786 3 апреля. Предложение отправить издателю Кильмарнокские стихи; изданные 14 апреля. Доказательства связи Бернса с Джин Армор "становились с каждымднем все более заметными", любовники заключили "некоторого рода брачный контракт"; в конце апреля отец Джин не признает Бернса в качестве приемного сына. 14 мая. Предполагаемая дата прощания Бернса с Мэри Кэмпбел. Июнь. Экземпляр для Поэм отправлен издателю. Бернс безуспешно пытается забыть Джин "во всех видах развлечений и бунтарских поступков, на масонских собраниях, пирушках...: и теперь для полного исцеления ...: возвращается домой корабль, который увезет меня на Ямайку". 9 Июля. Первое обвинение Бернса в прелюбодеянии. Джеймс Армор подает предписание против Бернса в конце июля, "бросить меня в тюрьму, пока я не гарантирую возмещение в огромную сумму". Поэмы опубликованы в Кильмарноке. 3 сентября. Джин Армор родила близнецов "Отцовские чувства" вынуждают Бернса отложить и затем отменить его план эмигрировать. 27-29 ноября. Путешествие Бернса в Эдинбург "попытаться выпустить второе издание". 9 декабря. Генри Маккензи дает обзор Поэм в журнале "Бездельник"; через неделю выпущены подписные листы на второе издание. 1787 февраль. Бернс чтит память эдинбургского поэта Роберта Фергюссона. Апрель. Начата Вторая Записная Книжка. 17 апреля, Вильям Крич публикует Поэмы. 5 мая-1июня. Путешествие Бернса со своим другом, адвокатом Робертом Эйнсли на границу. Опубликован первый том "Шотландского музыкального музея" Джеймса Джонсона (предисловие датировано 22 маем). Конец июня. Экскурсия в Западную Шотландию до Инверари и Арроучар. 25 августа - 16 сентября. Путешествие Бернса с эдинбургским школьным учителем Вильямом Николем в Горную Шотландию. Стихи связанные с этой поездкой: (см.Стихотворение о гостеприимстве. (см.Строчки, написанные карандашом у водопада Файерс). 4-20 октября. Бернса путешествует с доктором Эдаэром и посещает сэра Вильяма Муррея из Очтерттайер. Возвращается в Эдинбург, где живет у Вильяма Крукшенка. Опубликовано первое лондонское издание Поэм. Бернс начинает пополнять "Шотландский музыкальный музей". 4 декабря. Бернс встречает миссис Мак-Лиоз,"Кларинду" 1788 14 февраля. Опубликован второй том "Шотландского музыкального музея". 18 февраля. Бернс возвращается в Эйршир к Джин Армор, несмотря на "святотатство" сравнивать ее с Клариндой. Конец февраля. Бернс посещает ферму Эллисланд около Дамфриза, предложенную ему в аренду Патриком Миллером из Долсвинтона. 3 марта. Джин Армор родила девочек-двойняшек, одна из которых умерла 10 марта, а другая 18 марта. После краткого посещения Эдинбурга и Кларинды Бернс готовится поселиться в Эллисланде. Апрель. Брак с Джин признан "действительным и законным". Июнь. Бернс отправляется в Эллисланд (в декабре за ним следует Джин). 14 июля. Бернс назначен акцизным. Начало дружбы с семьей Ридделов. 1789 июнь-июль. Ридделы представляют Бернса капитану Фрэнсису Гроузу, для которого был написан Тэм О'Шентер (см."Тэм О'Шентер" 18 августа. Родился сын Бернса Фрэнсис Уоллес. 1 сентября. Бернс начинает работать в акцизе за 50 фунтов. Октябрь. Дамфризское издание. (см."Пять ведьм." 1790 Бернс "болеет всю зиму. Непрерывная головная боль,подавленное настроение и по-настоящему скверные последствия расшатанной нервной системы"; борется со своей фермой и проезжает "по делам акциза не менее 200 миль каждую неделю"; но "я ни коим образом не порвал с Музами". Февраль. Опубликован третий том "Шотландского музыкального музея". Бернс вовлечен в работу для дамфризского театра. (см."Шотландский пролог." Июль. Общие выборы. 1 ноября. Завершена работа над поэмой Тэм О'Шентер (см."Тэм О'Шентер" 1791 30 января. Смерть покровителя Бернса, графа Гленкерна (см."Элегия Джеймсу, графу Гленкерну." 31 марта. В Дамфризе родилась дочь Бернса Элизабет от Анны Парк. 9 апреля. В Эллисланде родился сын Бернса Вильям Николь. 25 августа. Урожай Бернса продан на аукционе в Эллисланде с примечательной сценой пьянства, "около тридцати человек принимали участие в битве ... в течение трех часов после аукциона". 10 сентября. Бернс отказывается от аренды в Эллисланде и все время отдает работе в акцизе. Ноябрь. Бернс едет в Эдинбург и прощается с Клариндой. 1792 февраль. Бернс назначен в акцизное отделение дамфризского порта на 70 фунтов в год, с перспективой дополнительного дохода в 15 фунтов. Апрель. Запланировано новое издание Поэм, которые были опубликованы Кричем в феврале 1793 г. Август. Опубликован четвертый том "Шотландского музыкального музея". Шестьдесят песен из сотни написаны или обработаны Бернсом. 16 сентября. Бернс соглашается сделать вклад в "Избранное собрание оригинальных шотландских мелодий" Джорджа Томсона (1793-1818). 21 ноября. Родилась дочь Бернса Элизабет Риддел. Миссис Бернс "кажется, решила сделать меня главарем шайки". Декабрь. Бернс обвинен в политической неблагонадежности во время революционных волнений в Дамфризе. К 5 января буря пронеслась, но "я впредь наложил печать молчания относительно этих неудачных политиков". 1793 февраль. Второе эдинбургское издание Поэм. Май. Впервые опубликовано "Избранное собрание" Томсона. 19 мая. Бернс переезжает в Милл Веннел, Дамфриз. Конец июля-2 августа. Поездки Бернса с Джоном Саймом в Галлоуэй. Конец декабря. Бернс ссорится с Риделлами. 1794 февраль. Бернс посылает 41 песню Джонсону, несмотря на зимнее плохое настроение. 20 апреля. Смерть Роберта Риддела. 12 августа. Родился сын Бернса Джеймс Гленкэрн. Ноябрь. Поиск Бернсом английских песен для собрания Томсона. Декабрь. Бернс назначен действительным инспектором акциза. Возобновлена переписка с Марией Риддел. 1795 январь. Охлаждение отношений между Бернсом и миссис Дэнлоп. Бернс принимает участие в организации отряда дамфризских добровольцев. Весна. Выборы Патрика Хирона кандидатом от Кэркудбрайт. Сентябрь. Умирает дочь Бернса Элизабет Риддел. Декабрь. Бернс болен тяжелым приступом ревмокардита. 1796 январь-март. Голод и недовольства в Дамфризе. "Как долго "свинская толпа" будет молчать и терпеть я не знаю, но угроза нависает с каждым днем". 4 июля. Бернс в своей последней болезни борется, что бы поддержать сбор песен для Томсона; безуспешно обращается к Томсону (12 июля) дать в займы 5 фунтов для погашения долга. 21 июля. Бернс умирает в Дамфризе. 25 июля. Похороны Бернса. Родился его пятый сын Максвел. Декабрь. Опубликован пятый том "Шотландского музыкального музея".Дети Бернса.
Элизабет Патон Бернс 1785-1817 Джин Армор Бернс 1786 – ум. 11 месяцев Роберт Бернс 1786-1857 Роберт (Клоу) 1788-? Девочки-близнецы 1788 ум. после рождения Франсис Уоллес Бернс 1789-1803 Элизабет Парк Бернс 1791-1873 Вильям Николь Бернс 1791-1872 Элизабет Риддел Бернс 1792-1795 Джеймс Гленкерн Бернс 1794-1865 Максвелл Бернс 1796-1799
Примечания.
Бернес и Бернс.
Поэт пользовался старой версией фамилии, Бернес, до апреля 1786 года, когда она последний раз появилась в его подписи к письму. После этого он принял написание без "е".См. Основные даты жизни Роберта Бернса.
Я прежде девушку любил.
В стихах, посвященных Нелли Килпатрик (1760-1820), с которой пятнадцатилетний Роберт вместе вязал снопы во время уборки урожая, он попытался спеть на знакомый мотив песенку про свою подружку. Она была дочерью Алана Килпатрика, мельника из Парклевана. В последствии она вышла замуж за Вильяма Боуна, извозчика из Ньюарка. В своей “Записной книжке” Бернс писал: “Существует определенная связь между Любовью, с одной стороны, и Музыкой и Поэзией, с другой. Любовь – это светлый дар Природы… Могу сказать про себя, что я никогда не думал о том, чтобы сделаться поэтом, пока не полюбил… Я был тогда наивным пареньком,не знакомым с вероломством и злом. Стихи эти сентиментальны и примитивны; но они мне дороги, как память тех счастливых дней, когда сердце мое было исполнено веры в добро и когда я говорил только то, что думал. Предметом моей любви была одна молоденькая девушка, которая воистину была вполне достойна тех похвал, на которые я не скупился в моих первых стихах… Среди ее прочих, возбуждающих любовь достоинств, было сладкое пение; и на ее любимый напев я попытался впервые выразить свои чувства в рифмах. Разумеется, я не был столь самонадеян, чтобы воображать, будто я могу писать стихи, какие печатают в книгах, сочиненные людьми, владеющими греческим и латынью. Но моя девушка пела песню, сочиненную, как говорят, сыном небогатого деревенского землевладельца, влюбленным в одноу из служанок своего отца. И, поэтому, не было никаких причин, почему бы и мне не рифмовать, как рифмует он, тем более, что он был не ученее меня… Так для меня началась Любовь и Поэзия”.
Песня, сочиненная в августе.
Знаменитый современный шотландский народный певец Дик Гогэн поет эту песню, кажется, при каждой возможности. Должно быть это его любимое произведение Бернса. Он записал ее в своих альбомах `Горсть земли' и `Жизнь в Эдинбурге'. Это - одна из самый ранних песен Бернса, хотя он позднее переработал ее для публикации. Она написана в 1775, когда Бернс был увлечен Пэгги Томсон. В конце лета того года отец отправил Роберта в землемерную школу Роджерса,находившуюся в маленьком рабочем поселке Кэркосвальде. В августе 1787 года Бернс писал в своемго автобиографическом письме доктору Джону Муру: "Я провел свое семнадцатое лето на приличном расстоянии от дома в знаменитой школе изучая геометрию... пока солнце не взошло в созвездии Девы, в месяце, который всегда был карнавалом в моей груди, очаровательная девушка, жившая рядом со школой перечеркнула мою тригонометрию и отправила по касательной прочь от сферы моих занятий." Позже, он попробовал переделать эту раннюю песню для Джин Армор; К сожалению, ни один экземпляр ее не сохранился. Затем Бернс вернулся к той же песне, и в версии напечатанной в "Шотландском Музыкальном Музее" многие английские слова заменены на шотландские. И, что необычно для любовной песни, в нее включены четыре строки протеста против "кровопролитных ружей" охотников.
Покаянная мысль в час раскаяния.
Покаянная мысль в час раскаяния.
Примечание Бернса. "В мои юные годы не было ничего менее полезного, чем служение трагической Музе. Мне было, я думаю, около 18 или 19 лет, когда я по-настоящему задумал фабулу трагедии, но взрыв семейных неприятностей, некоторое время преследовавших нас, предотвратили ее дальнейшее развитие. В те дни я никогда ничего не записывал, так что, кроме одного или двух монологов, все исчезло из моей памяти. Следующий отрывок, который я наиболее отчетливо помню, представлял восклицание персонажа "Дж", неординарной личности - временами великодушной, а временами способной на дурные поступки. Он, как предполагается, встречается с нищим ребенком и взывает к себе".
Первый псалом.
В юные годы Бернс часто обращался к Священному Писанию. В своем стихотворении он изложил следующий Псалом Давида. 1 Блажен муж, который не ходит на совет нечестивых и не стоит на пути грешных и не сидит в собрании развратителей, 2 но в законе Господа воля его, и о законе Его размышляет он день и ночь! 3 И будет он как дерево, посаженное при потоках вод, которое приносит плод свой во время свое, и лист которого не вянет; и во всем, что он ни делает, успеет. 4 Не так - нечестивые, [не так]: но они - как прах, возметаемый ветром [с лица земли]. 5 Потому не устоят нечестивые на суде, и грешники - в собрании праведных. 6 Ибо знает Господь путь праведных, а путь нечестивых погибнет.
Первые шесть стихов 90 псалма.
Первые шесть стихов 90 псалма.
Еще один пример обращения юного Бернса к Священному Писанию (89 Псалом): 1 Молитва Моисея, человека Божия. 2 Господи! Ты нам прибежище в род и род. 3 Прежде нежели родились горы, и Ты образовал землю и вселенную, и от века и до века Ты - Бог. 4 Ты возвращаешь человека в тление и говоришь: "возвратитесь, сыны человеческие!" 5 Ибо пред очами Твоими тысяча лет, как день вчерашний, когда он прошел, и как стража в ночи. 6 Ты как наводнением уносишь их; они - как сон, как трава, которая утром вырастает, утром цветет и зеленеет, вечером подсекается и засыхает;
Монтгомери Пэгги.
По мнению сестры поэта, миссис Изабеллы Бэгг, она владела домом в Койлсфилде, где Бернс часто встречался с ней. Они сидели рядом в церкви, где “завязали близкое знакомство”. Бернс писал, что он “начал эту связь просто для сердечной услады,и, сказать по правде, тщеславное желание оказывать ей свои знаки внимания, особенно свои способности показать “хорошие манеры”, которыми я всегда гордился, заставили меня осаждать ее неприступную крепость. И когда я добился очень теплых чувств с ее стороны, она сказала мне однажды, под флагом перемирия, что ее крепость за некоторое время до этого была во власти другого, но с величайшим дружелюбием и вежливостью она предложила мне любой союз, кроме действительного обладания". Монтгомери Пэгги остается одной из загадочных героинь в жизни Бернса.
Раскаяние.
Из "записной книжки" Роберта Бернса. "Я вполне согласен со здравомыслящим философом мистером Смитом в его превосходной "Теории моральных чувств", что раскаяние является наиболее болезненным чувством, которое может раздирать человеческую грудь. Любое обычное колебание силы духа можно перенести вполне спокойно в тех бедствиях, к причинам которых мы лично непричастны. Но когда наши безрассудные поступки и преступления делают нас несчастными и жалкими, выносить их со стойким мужеством и в то же самое время иметь должное чувство раскаяния в нашем дурном поведении, является восхитительной попыткой самообладания".
Мэри Морисон. (1771-1791)
Надгробная плита, установленной на церковном кладбище в Мохлине гласит, что она была дочерью Джона Морисона, адьютанта 104-го полка и что она была “прекрасной Мэри” из стихотворения поэта. По местной легенде она встречалась с поэтом всего лишь раз. Тем не менее большинство авторитетных источников придерживаются мнения, что это имя было использовано Бернсом для Алисон Бегби, так как Бернс называл эту песню в числе своих юношеских работ , написанных в 1784/5 году, когда этой девушке было едва 14 лет и она была на 12 лет моложе поэта.
Обращение к Очень Хорошим.
Из "записной книжки" Роберта Бернса. Март 1784 г. “Изучая людей, я имел случай заметить, что у каждого человека, даже самого плохого, есть какая-то доля добра его натуре; при этом очень часто простое природное добродушие является причиной той или иной добродетели… поэтому ни один человек не может определить, в какой мере тот или иной из его соседей может быть назван более порочным, чем он сам. Пусть,например, какой-нибудь строгий блюститель нравственности попробует честно признаться самому себе, скольких пороков ему удалось избежать не по причине строгой бдительности и самоконтроля, а просто потому, что не представился случай, или из-за того, что ему что-нибудь помешало; скольких слабостей человеческих он избежал лишь оттого, что он не попал в дурное общество; и почему следует считать, что он лучше, чем все остальные, разве только потому, что свет оставил о нем хорошее мнение, не зная тайн его существования? Я утверждаю, что любой человек, который станет рассуждать подобным образом, будет рассматривать крушения, ошибки и даже преступления, творящиеся вокруг, глазами брата и другалюдей. Мне приходилось встречаться с представителями той части человечества, которую принято считать дном общества; причем это иногда даже было не вполне безопасно; тут было немало таких лиц, которые, вследствие безрассудных поступков или под влиянием слепых страстей, разорились. И хотя они опозорили себя бесчестными поступками, а иные даже скрывались от правосудия, мне удалось во многих случаях обнаружить благороднейшие чувства, как-то: великодушие, щедрость, бескорыстную дружбу и даже скромность”.
Джон Ранкин.(1727-1807)
Владел фермой Адамхил недалеко от Тарболтона. Человек с грубым, добрым юмором, он подружился с Бернсом в поздний период его проживания в Лохли. Он, очевидно, узнал, что Элизабет Патон ожидала ребенка от Бернса – первенца поэта – и поддел по этому поводу Бернса, который ответил двумя незначительными строфами, а затем мудрым и технически смелым “Посланием Джоу Ранкину”. Поэт описывает случившееся на охотничьем жаргоне. Впоследствии Бернс подарил Ранкину серебряную табакерку.
Джон Лапрейк. (1727-1807)
Вполне вероятно, что Джон Лапрейк происходил от француза из свиты Марии, королевы Шотландской. Во времена Бернса он был уже пожилым поэтом- фермером, который жил в Далкухрамме, в приходе Мьюркирка пока не был разорен падением банка в Эйре в 1783 году и был вынужден продать свое имущество. На некоторое время он был посажен в тюрьму за долги. Позднее он переехал, сначала в Мьюркирк, где он арендовал ферму, а потом в Мьюирсмилл, где стал трактирщиком и почтмейстером. Он был женат сначала на Маргарет Ранкин, сестре Джона Ранкина, затем на Джанет Андерсон.Лапрейк был одним из многих местных поэтов, которые снабжали Бернса в его ранние годы необходимой литературой. Стихи Лапрейка были изданы Вильсоном в Кильмарноке в 1788 г., однако, с малым успехом. Один из них, за основу которого Лапрейк очевидно взял анонимное произведение в еженедельнике Рудимана 14 октября 1773 г., “When I upon the Bossom Lean”, появилось в “Шотландском Музыкальном Музее“, возможно при содействии Бернса. Настоящим значением Лапрейка, тем не менее, является то, что его дружба с Бернсом побудила поэта написать два из его лучших стихотворных посланий Лапрейку. Первое, датированное 1-м апреля 1785 года, следует обычным образцам формы стихотворного послания 18-го века – за описанием места действия следует букет грубых комплиментов адресату, основная часть послания, завершающая секция прославляет удовольствия дружбы и общения. На этот замечательный взрыв чувств, Лапрейк ответил должным образом, отправив своего сына с письмом. И так, Бернс 21-го апреля снова написал ответ. “Второе послание Лапрейку” в основном автобиографическое по содержанию, точнее описывает неприятности, выпавшие на долю поэта. “Третье послание Дж. Лапрейку”, написанное 13-го сентября 1785 года по качеству слабее двух предыдущих, было впервые опубликовано в 1808 году.
Маргарет Кеннеди или Пэгги (1766-1795)
Дочь Роберта Кеннеди, управляющего имением графа Кассилис и младшая сестра миссис Гэвин Гамильтон, в доме которой Бернс встретил Пэгги, когда ей было 18 лет. Пораженный ее красотой и умом, он написал в честь нее песню "Юная Пэгги", которая была опубликована в 1787 году в "Шотландском музыкальном музее" Джонсона. За год до их встречи мисс Кеннеди встретила капитана (позднее полковника) Андру мак Доугала из Логана, упомянутого во второй предвыборной балладе, и в 1794 году родила от него дочь. Она настаивала, что они тайно обвенчаны, но капитан отрицал как отцовство, так и женитьбу. Было возбуждено дело, но Пэгги умерла, не дождавшись его завершения. В 1798 году церковный суд признал женитьбу и законность ребенка, но решение о законности было отменено сессией суда, который тем не менее присудил 3000 фунтов умершей и алименты на содержание ребенка.
Прощание с Бэллохмайлом.
Район в Эйршире, рядом с Мохлином, упоминаемый в стихотворениях “Девушка из Бэллохмайла” и “Прощание с Бэллохмайлом”. Бернс рассказывал, что это последнее стихотворение было написано, когда сэр Джон Вайтфурд потерял свое состояние, когда в 1772 году рухнул банк. Мария из этого стихотворения была дочерью Вайтфурда.
Обращение к Дьяволу.
Шотландские поэты, начиная с Дунбара и позднее, выработали тон шутливого панибратства с Дьяволом.О первых пробах Бернса в этом жанре его брат, Гильберт,писал: “Это было, кажется, зимой 1784 года, когда мы вышли с тележками, чтобы привезти угля для домашнего очага, Роберт впервые прочел мне “Обращение к Дьяволу”. Странная идея такого обращения была навеяна многими нелепыми поверьями и представлениями, витавшими в его мозгу относительно этого величественного персонажа”. Гильберт ошибался по поводу даты создания, так как Бернс рассказывал Ричмонду, что оно было написано в 1785-6 году. Очевидно, что ни Дунбар, ни Бернс на самом деле не верили в Дьявола. Но, тогда как первый изобразил “Махоона” в “Танце Семи Смертных Грехов” правителем реалистичного, колоритного, католического ада, то Бернс использовал этот персонаж, чтобы подшутить не только над местным суеверием, но также над доверчивостью обывателей.
Поведай. тетя, по секрету.
Бернс собирал и писал непристойные песни всю свою жизнь. Он сохранял эти песни в записной книжке, которая исчезла после его смерти. Но при жизни он всегда раздавал рукописные копии среди своих друзей. Пиратская книга "Веселые Музы Каледонии" была опубликована в 1800 году, но сохранился только один ее экземпляр. Наконец. Джеймс Барк и Сидни Гудсир Смит выпустили определенную версию непристойных произведений Бернса в 1965 году. Приведенная здесь песня была напечатана "Веселых Музах Каледонии". Мак НОТ описывает ее как "анонимную, но , очевидно, старую; возможно немного причесанную." Тем не менее в ее настоящем виде, это вероятно собственное произведение Бернса. Три строки первого стиха сохранились в отрывочном письме из Элисланда, возможно Александру Далзилю, и находятся сейчас в Национальной библиотеке Шотландии.
Свисток.
Примечание Бернса. "Я привожу здесь довольно любопытный, но достоверный прозаический рассказ о Свистке. Когда датская королева Анна приехала в Шотландию с нашим Джеймсом VI, вместе с ее свитой прибыл джентльмен гигантского роста, великой отваги и непревзойденный чемпион Бахуса. У него был маленький эбонитовый свисток, который он в начале оргий выкладывал на стол. Кто последним был способен подуть в него, в то время как все остальные были выведены из строя могуществом бутыли, тот забирал этот свисток в качестве победного трофея. Датчанин представил доказательства своих побед, без единого поражения при дворах Копенгагена, Стокгольма, Москвы, Варшавы и некоторых мелких дворах Германии и бросал вызов шотландским участникам вакханалий в качестве альтернативного испытания его отваги или, иначе признания его превосходства. После многочисленных поражений шотландцев датчанин столкнулся с сэром Робертом Лоури Максвелом, предком ныне живущего достопочтенного барона с тем же именем, который после трех дней и трех ночей тяжелого состязания оставил скандинава под столом и траурный реквием ему просвистал". Сэр Вальтер, сын вышеупомянутого сэра Роберта позднее проиграл свисток Вальтеру Ридделу из Гленриддела, который женился на сестре сэра Вальтера. В пятницу, 16 октября 1789 года в Фраэрс Карсе проводилось еще одно состязание за свисток. Как повествуется в балладе, оно происходило между нынешним сэром Робертом Лоури Максвелом, Робертом Ридделом эсквайром из Гленриддела - прямым потомком Вальтера Риддела, который завоевал и хранил этот свисток и Александром Фергюссоном, эсквайром из Крэйгдарроха, тоже прямым потомком великого сэра Роберта, который последним в тяжком состязании добился этой почести."
Джон Коп.
Эта баллада рассказывает о битве при Престонпенс, произошедшей 21 сентября 1745 года, когда войска якобитов во главе с “принцем Чарли” – Чарльзом Эдвардом Стюартом – обратили в бегство численно превосходившую их армию англичан под командой генерала Джона Копа.
Элен Анна Парк.
Племянница миссис Хислоп, владевшей трактиром “Глобус” в Дамфризе. Она была бернсовской “златокудрой Анной”, вдохновившей его на “Yestreen, I had a pint of wine”– изумительную песню о любви, которую Бернс считал своей лучшей песней. Об отношениях Бернса с Анной замечательно повествует Р.Я.Райт-Ковалева: “За день Роберт смертельно уставал. Как не воспользоваться гостеприимством доброй миссис Хислоп, как не остаться ночевать в теплой, уютной комнате наверху, куда ему охотно подавала ужин и стакан грога златокудрая Анна, такая красивая, беспечная, веселая. Он предупреждал ее: никогда он не бросит Джин, не уйдет из семьи. Но на все его уговоры Анна отвечала смехом, бросалась ему на шею – и не уходила из его комнаты до утра.” 31 марта 1791 года у Анны родилась девочка, “дорогая крошка Бэсс”, а 9 апреля Джин Армор подарила Бернсу сына, которого поэт назвал Вильям Николь в честь старого друга. В изложенеи вышеупомянутой Р.Я.Райт-Ковалевой после таких подарков "Роберт рассказал жене, что Анна умерла от родов и у ее родных осталась девочка – такая же черноглазая, как все дети Роберта. Джин молча посмотрела в глаза мужу, потом тихо сказала: -Привези ее мне, я их обоих выкормлю… " Девочка выросла красивой, умной, вышла замуж за хорошего человека, ткача Томсона, родила ему семерых детей. Про Джин она сказала одному из первых биографов Бернса: “Добрей и ласковей ее не было человека на свете…” О судьбе Анны Парк ничего не известно. Де Ланси Фергюссон говорит, что она умерла при рождении Элизабет, тогда как другая легенда ссылается на то, что она устроилась домашней служанкой в Лейте или Эдинбурге, где вышла замуж за солдата и умерла при рождении его ребенка.
Тэм О’Шентер.
Повествовательная поэма Бернса впервые появилась в эдинбургском журнале в марте 1791 г.,за месяц до появления ее во втором томе “Шотландской старины” Френсиса Гроуза, для которого она была изначально написана. Роберт Риддел представил Бернса Гроузу. По рассказу Гильберта,брата Бернса, поэту очень хотелось, чтобы Гроуз увековечил развалины церкви в Аллоуэе и старое кладбище, где был похоронен отец. Эта церковь, построенная в 1516 году, была закрыта еще за три года до рождения Роберта, в 1756 году. Гроуз согласился при условии, если Бернс найдет какую-нибудь интересную легенду, связанную с этой церковью. В письме Гроузу в июне 1790 г. Бернс описал три случая. Первым был комический рассказ о придурковатом батраке, который летал на метле во Францию и очнулся утром в рыбачьем поселке в Бретани. Вторая легенда была о ведьме и черте. И третьим был рассказ в стихах “Тэм О’Шентер”. О фермере Дугласе Грейме О’Шентере, отчаянном пьянице, больше всего на свете боявшемся своей сварливой жены, в Эйршире ходило много анекдотов. Однажды, пока он сидел в трактире, мальчишки выдрали хвост у его кобылы. Дуглас заметил это лишь по возвращении домой. Чтобы смыть с себя позор и оправдаться в глазах жены, он сочинил рассказ о чертях и ведьмах. Этот эпизод подсказал Бернсу сюжет его поэмы, которую он сам особенно ценил и которая до сих пор пользуется большой популярностью среди шотландцев.
Река Дун.
Вытекает из одноименного озера на границе Эйршира и Киркудбрайтшира и впадает в Фирт-оф-Клайд в 10 милях к западу от Эйра. Он разделяет районы Эйршира, Кэррик и Кайл. Бернс упоминает его много раз, особенно в “Тэме О’Шентере”и в песне “Берега Дуна”. Эта – вероятно наиболее популярная из всех бернсовских песен – впервые появилась в “Шотландском музыкального музея” в 1792 году. Она также появилась в “ “Шотландских мелодиях” Томсона. В письме Томсону, написанном в ноябре 1794 года, Бернс просил: “Вы знаете историю этой мелодии? Она довольно любопытна. Много лет назад добрый человек мистер Дж.Миллер, писатель в вашем славном городе, джентльмен, которого, возможно, вы знаете – был в компании с нашим другом, Кларком; и разговаривая о шотландской музыке, Миллер выразил горячее желание создать шотландскую мелодию. Мистер Кларк, полушутя, посоветовал придерживаться черных клавиш на клавесине и сохранить какое-то подобие ритма; и тогда, непременно, получится шотландская мелодия. Установлено, что за несколько дней мистер Миллер набросал мелодию, которую мистер Кларк немного подправил. Так была создана одна из прекраснейших мелодий в мире! Нейл Гоу получил копию и назвал ее “The Caledonian Hunts Delight” и напечатал ее в своем “Strathspey Reels” в 1788 году за 4 года до ее появления со словами Бернса в “Шотландском музыкальном музее”. В рукописи песни в Британском музее имя Гоу вычеркнуто из заглавия.
Андру Тернер (р.1749)
Тщеславный, самодовольный хлыщ из английских странствующих торговцев, у которого была амбиция слыть поэтом. Он пытался покровительствовать поэту- “пахарю” за бутылкой вина в трактире “Королевские доспехи” в Дамфризе. Друзья, чья вечеринка была прервана Тернером, попросили Бернса показать пример стихосложения экспромтом. Услышав имя и возраст путешественника, Бернс незамедлительно сочинил эту эпитафию.
