Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах - Антология

to see me pale;

And merry as a grig is grown,

And brisk as bottled ale.

The God of Love at her approach

Is busy as a bee;

Hearts, sound as any bell or roach,

Are smit and sigh like me.

Ay me! as thick as hops or hail,

The fine men crowd about her;

But soon as dead as a door nail

Shall I be, if without her.

Straight as my leg her shape appears,

O were we join’d together!

My heart would be scot-free from cares,

And lighter than a feather.

As fine as fivepence is her mien,

No drum was ever tighter;

Her glance is as the razor keen,

And not the sun is brighter.

As soft as pap her kisses are,

Methinks I taste them yet;

Brown as a berry is her hair,

Her eyes as black as jet:

As smooth as glass, as white as curds,

Her pretty hand invites;

Sharp as a needle are her words;

Her wit, like pepper, bites:

Brisk as a body-louse she trips,

Clean as a penny drest;

Sweet as a rose her breath and lips,

Round as the globe her breast.

Full as an egg was I with glee;

And happy as a king.

Good Lord! how all men envy’d me!

She lov’d like anything.

But, false as hell! she, like the wind,

Chang’d, as her sex must do;

Though seeming as the turtle kind,

And like the gospel true.

If I and Molly could agree,

Let who would take Peru!

Great as an emperor should I be,

And richer than a Jew.

Till you grow tender as a chick,

I’m dull as any post;

Let us, like burs, together stick,

And warm as any toast.

You’ll know me truer than a dye;

And wish me better speed;

Flat as a flounder when I lie,

And as a herring dead.

Sure as a gun, she’ll drop a tear,

And sigh, perhaps, and wish,

When I am rotten as a pear,

And mute as any fish.

A Ballad

’Twas when the seas were roaring

With hollow blasts of wind;

A damsel lay deploring,

All on a rock reclined.

Wide o’er the foaming billows

She casts a wistful look;

Her head was crown’d with willows,

That trembled o’er the brook.

Twelve months are gone and over,

And nine long tedious days.

Why didst thou, venturous lover,

Why didst thou trust the seas?

Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean,

And let my lover rest:

Ah! what’s thy troubled motion

To that within my breast?

The merchant, robb’d of pleasure,

Sees tempests in despair:

But what’s the loss of treasure,

To losing of my dear?

Should you some coast be laid on,

Where gold and diamonds grow,

You’d find a richer maiden,

But none that loves you so.

How can they say that nature

Has nothing made in vain;

Why then beneath the water

Should hideous rocks remain?

No eyes the rocks discover,

That lurk beneath the deep,

To wreck the wandering lover,

And leave the maid to weep.

All melancholy lying,

Thus wail’d she for her dear;

Repaid each blast with sighing,

Each billow with a tear;

When o’er the white wave stooping,

His floating corpse she spied;

Then, like a lily drooping,

She bow’d her head, and died.

Sweet William’s Farewell To Black-Ey’d Susan

A Ballad

All in the Downs the fleet was moor’d,

The streamers waving in the wind,

When black-ey’d Susan came aboard.

Oh! where shall I my true love find!

Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,

If my sweet William sails among the crew.

William, who high upon the yard,

Rock’d with the billow to and fro,

Soon as her well-known voice he heard,

He sigh’d, and cast his eyes below:

The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands,

And, (quick as lightning) on the deck he stands.

So the sweet lark, high pois’d in air,

Shuts close his pinions to his breast,

(If, chance, his mate’s shrill call he hear)

And drops at once into her nest.

The noblest captain in the British fleet,

Might envy William’s lip those kisses sweet.

’O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,

My vows shall ever true remain;

Let me kiss off that falling tear,

We only part to meet again.

Change, as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be

The faithful compass that still points to thee.

’Believe not what the landmen say,

Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind:

They’ll tell thee, sailors, when away,

In ev’ry port a mistress find.

Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,

For thou art present wheresoe’er I go.

’If to far India’s coast we sail,

Thy eyes are seen in di’monds bright,

Thy breath is Afric’s spicy gale,

Thy skin is