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

десять глотку сдавят».

Пришлось недолго парням ждать.

В ту ночь из ближних сел,

Посвистывая, матерясь,

Веселый Данни шел.

Когда он к броду подходил,

Как сучья заскрипят!

И двадцать девять на него

Набросилось ребят.

Тут Бирну он расквасил нос,

Трем зубы выбил он,

С рукой, прокушенной насквозь,

Бежать пустился Шон.

Но сзади семеро взялись,

И семеро за грудь,

Да в горло семеро впились,

И Данни — не дохнуть.

Кто сапогом его топтал,

А кто пинал как мог,

А двое трубку с кошельком

Стащили под шумок.

Теперь ты видел серый крест?

Кругом кусты да травы…

Там был задушен Данни в ночь

У Мульской переправы.

Перевод Ю. Таубина

Вопрос

Придешь ли, я спросил, когда умру,

Со всеми вместе, в черном, поутру,

Смотреть, как, поболтав и помолясь,

Опустят гроб в кладбищенскую грязь?

О нет, сказала, как смотреть на них,

Глазеющих на гроб глупцов живых, —

Когда ты умер? Брошусь, не сдержусь,

Зубами в горло первое вцеплюсь…

Перевод А. Петровой

Зима

Падает, падает снег,

Город засыпан весь.

Ни одна собака меня

Не знает здесь.

Из подвальных окон звучит мне вслед

Еврейская и польская речь…

Брожу день и ночь, чтоб последний мешок

Угля сберечь.

Перевод А. Петровой

В мае

В уголке,

На юг, к лучам,

Мы лежали

Уста к устам.

Чайка, как снег,

Галка, как ночь, —

На нас взглянули

И — с криком прочь.

«И я, — сказал я, —

Буду таков,

Когда зацелуешь

До синяков».

Перевод Е. Тарасова

Aubrey Beardsley (1872–1898)

The Ballad Of A Barber

Here is the tale of Carrousel,

The barber of Meridian Street.

He cut, and coiffed, and shaved so well,

That all the world was at his feet.

The King, the Queen, and all the Court,

To no one else would trust their hair,

And reigning belles of every sort

Owed their successes to his care.

With carriage and with cabriolet

Daily Meridian Street was blocked,

Like bees about a bright bouquet

The beaux about his doorway flocked.

Such was his art he could with ease

Curl wit into the dullest face;

Or to a goddess of old Greece

Add a new wonder and a grace.

All powders, paints, and subtle dyes,

And costliest scents that men distil,

And rare pomades, forgot their price

And marvelled at his splendid skill.

The curling irons in his hand

Almost grew quick enough to speak,

The razor was a magic wand

That understood the softest cheek.

Yet with no pride his heart was moved;

He was so modest in his ways!

His daily task was all he loved,

And now and then a little praise.

An equal care he would bestow

On problems simple or complex;

And nobody had seen him show

A preference for either sex.

How came it then one summer day,

Coiffing the daughter of the King,

He lengthened out the least delay

And loitered in his hairdressing?

The Princess was a pretty child,

Thirteen years old, or thereabout.

She was as joyous and as wild

As spring flowers when the sun is out.

Her gold hair fell down to her feet

And hung about her pretty eyes;

She was as lyrical and sweet

As one of Schubert’s melodies.

Three times the barber curled a lock,

And thrice he straightened it again;

And twice the irons scorched her frock,

And twice he stumbled in her train.

His fingers lost their cunning quite,

His ivory combs obeyed no more;

Something or other dimmed his sight,

And moved mysteriously the floor.

He leant upon the toilet table,

His fingers fumbled in his breast;

He felt as foolish as a fable,

And feeble as a pointless jest.

He snatched a bottle of Cologne,

And broke the neck between his hands;

He felt as if he was alone,

And mighty as a king’s commands.

The Princess gave a little scream,

Carrousel’s cut was sharp and deep;

He left her softly as a dream

That leaves a sleeper to his sleep.

He left the room on pointed feet;

Smiling that things had gone so well.

They hanged him in Meridian Street.

You pray in vain for Carrousel.

The Three Musicians

Along the path that skirts the wood,

The three musicians wend their way,

Pleased with their thoughts, each other’s mood,

Franz Himmel’s latest roundelay,

The morning’s work, a new-found theme, their breakfast and the summer day.

One’s a soprano, lightly frocked

In cool, white muslin that just shows

Her brown silk stockings gaily clocked,

Plump arms and elbows tipped with rose,

And