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The Holy Fair

Святая ярмарка

Robert Burns


Роберт Бёрнс

В переводе Маршака Самуила Яковлевича

Robert Burns - Роберт Бёрнс
25 января 1759 – 21 июля 1796

The Holy Fair (1785) Из поэмы "Святая ярмарка"
 A robe of seeming truth and trust
     Hid crafty Observation;
 And secret hung, with poison'd crust,
     The dirk of Defamation:
 A mask that like the gorget show'd,
     Dye-varying on the pigeon;
 And for a mantle large and broad,
     He wrapt him in Religion.

Hypocrisy A-La-Mode

 Upon a simmer Sunday morn
     When Nature's face is fair,
 I walked forth to view the corn,
     An' snuff the caller air.
 The rising sun owre Galston muirs
     Wi' glorious light was glintin;
 The hares were hirplin down the furrs,
     The lav'rocks they were chantin
         Fu' sweet that day.
 Был день воскресный так хорош.
 Все было лету радо.
 Я шел в поля взглянуть на рожь
 И подышать прохладой.

 Большое солнце в этот миг
 Вставало, как с постели.
 Резвились зайцы - прыг да прыг

 И жаворонки пели
     В тот ясный день.
 As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,
     To see a scene sae gay,
 Three hizzies, early at the road,
     Cam skelpin up the way.
 Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,
     But ane wi' lyart lining;
 The third, that gaed a wee a-back,
     Was in the fashion shining
         Fu' gay that day.
 Бродил я, радостью дыша
 И вглядываясь в дали,
 Как вдруг три женщины, спеша,
 Мне путь перебежали.

 На двух был черный шерстяной
 Наряд - назло природе.
 На третьей был наряд цветной
 По моде, по погоде
    В тот летний день.
 The twa appear'd like sisters twin,
     In feature, form, an' claes;
 Their visage wither'd, lang an' thin,
     An' sour as only slaes:
 The third cam up, hap-stap-an'-lowp,
     As light as ony lambie,
 An' wi'a curchie low did stoop,
     As soon as e'er she saw me,
         Fu' kind that day.
 Две первых были меж собой,
 Как близнецы, похожи
 Унылым видом, худобой
 И мрачною одежей.

 А третья козочкой шальной
 Попрыгивала весело
 И вдруг присела предо мной
 И мне поклон отвесила
    В тот яркий день.
 Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, "Sweet lass,
     I think ye seem to ken me;
 I'm sure I've seen that bonie face
     But yet I canna name ye."
 Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak,
     An' taks me by the han's,
 "Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck
     Of a' the ten comman's
         A screed some day."
 Я шляпу снял и произнес:
 - Я вас припоминаю,
 Но извините за вопрос, -
 Как звать вас, я не знаю.

 С кивком задорным головы,
 Смеясь, она сказала:
 - Со мною заповедей вы
 Нарушили немало
    В досужий день!
 "My name is Fun—your cronie dear,
     The nearest friend ye hae;
 An' this is Superstitution here,
     An' that's Hypocrisy.
 I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,
     To spend an hour in daffin:
 Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair,
     We will get famous laughin
         At them this day."
 Я - ваша Радость, я - Игра,
 А это - Лицемерье,
 И рядом с ней - ее сестра,
 Глухое Суеверье.

 Давайте в Мохлин мы пойдем
 И, если две сестрицы
 Идут на ярмарку, найдем
 Предлог повеселиться
    Мы в этот день.
 Quoth I, "Wi' a' my heart, I'll do't;
     I'll get my Sunday's sark on,
 An' meet you on the holy spot;
     Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin!"
 Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time,
     An' soon I made me ready;
 For roads were clad, frae side to side,
     Wi' mony a weary body
         In droves that day.
 - Нет, я пойду сперва домой
 И праздничную смену -
 Сюртук и новый галстук мой -
 Для ярмарки надену.

 Поспел я к завтраку как раз,
 Надел костюм воскресный.
 А уж на праздник в этот час
 Спешил народ окрестный
    В тот шумный день.
 Here farmers gash, in ridin graith,
     Gaed hoddin by their cotters;
 There swankies young, in braw braid-claith,
     Are springing owre the gutters.
 The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,
     In silks an' scarlets glitter;
 Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang,
     An' farls, bak'd wi' butter,
         Fu' crump that day.
 Трусили фермеры верхом,
 Шли батраки оравой.
 И молодежь одним прыжком
 Брала в пути канавы.

 Бежали в праздничных шелках
 Девицы-босоножки,
 Несли сыры они в руках
 И сдобные лепешки
    В тот добрый день.
 When by the plate we set our nose,
     Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence,
 A greedy glowr black-bonnet throws,
     An' we maun draw our tippence.
 Then in we go to see the show:
     On ev'ry side they're gath'rin;
 Some carrying dails, some chairs an' stools,
     An' some are busy bleth'rin
         Right loud that day.
 Монетку бросить был я рад
 В тарелку с медью мелкою,
 Но, уловив святоши взгляд,
 Бросаю две в тарелку я.

 Я в загородку заглянул.
 Народ шумит, хлопочет,
 Несет скамейку, доску, стул,
 А кто и лясы точит
    В свободный день.
 Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs,
     An' screen our countra gentry;
 There Racer Jess*, an' twa-three whores,
     Are blinkin at the entry.
 Here sits a raw o' tittlin jads,
     Wi' heaving breast an' bare neck;
 An' there a batch o' wabster lads,
     Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock,
         For fun this day.
 
  [ * Racer Jess (d. 1813) was a half-witted daughter of
  Possie Nansie. She was a great pedestrian.]
 Для знати выстроен навес
 (Изменчива погода!).
 А вот стоит вертушка Джесс*,
 Мигая всем у входа.

 Ее подружки сели в ряд, -
 Без них какая ярмарка!
 А там ткачи сидят, галдят
 (Из города Кильмарнока).
    Пришел их день!

 [ * Джесс - девица  легкого  поведения,  дочь  трактирщицы,
 известной  по стихам Бернса - прим. С.Я. Маршака]
 Here, some are thinkin on their sins,
     An' some upo' their claes;
 Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins,
     Anither sighs an' prays:
 On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
     Wi' screwed-up, grace-proud faces;
 On that a set o' chaps, at watch,
     Thrang winkin on the lasses
         To chairs that day.
 Здесь кто вздыхает о грехах,
 Кто в гневе шлет проклятья
 Тем, кто измазал впопыхах
 Их праздничные платья.

 Кто сверху смотрит на других
 Высокомерным взглядом,
 А кто веселых щеголих
 Зовет усесться рядом
    В привольный день.
 O happy is that man, an' blest!
     Nae wonder that it pride him!
 Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,
     Comes clinkin down beside him!
 Wi' arms repos'd on the chair back,
     He sweetly does compose him;
 Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
     An's loof upon her bosom,
         Unkend that day.
 Но бесконечно счастлив тот,
 Кто, отыскав два места,
 Местечко рядышком займет
 С подругой иль невестой.

 Глядишь, рука его легла
 За ней - на спинку стула,
 Лотом ей шею обняла,
 А там на грудь скользнула
    В тот чудный день.
 Now a' the congregation o'er
     Is silent expectation;
 For Moodie* speels the holy door,
     Wi' tidings o' damnation:
 Should Hornie, as in ancient days,
     'Mang sons o' God present him,
 The vera sight o' Moodie's face,
     To 's ain het hame had sent him
         Wi' fright that day.

 [ * Rev. Alexander Moodie of Riccarton.] 
 
 Уселась публика и ждет.
 Ни суеты, ни шума.
 Вот Моди* речь держать идет,
 Унылый и угрюмый.

 Он целый час пугает нас
 Десницею господнею.
 Сам дьявол от его гримас
 Сбежал бы в преисподнюю
    В столь грозный день.
 [ * Моди - местный священник.]
 Hear how he clears the point o' faith
     Wi' rattlin and wi' thumpin!
 Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,
     He's stampin, an' he's jumpin!
 His lengthen'd chin, his turned-up snout,
     His eldritch squeel an' gestures,
 O how they fire the heart devout,
     Like cantharidian plaisters
         On sic a day!
 Толкуя нам один, другой
 И третий тезис веры,
 Он гневно топает ногой,
 Волнуясь свыше меры.

 Распутника и гордеца
 Громит курносый пастырь
 И жжет отступников сердца,
 Как самый жгучий пластырь,
    В тот страшный день.
 But hark! the tent has chang'd its voice,
     There's peace an' rest nae langer;
 For a' the real judges rise,
     They canna sit for anger,
 Smith* opens out his cauld harangues,
     On practice and on morals;
 An' aff the godly pour in thrangs,
     To gie the jars an' barrels
         A lift that day.
 
 [ * Rev. George Smith of Galston.]
 Но вот встают сердито с мест
 Земные наши судьи.
 И впрямь, - кому не надоест
 Такое словоблудье!

 Речь произносит мистер Смит*,
 Но люд благочестивый,
 Уже не слушая, спешит
 К холодным бочкам пива
    В столь жаркий день...
 [ * Смит - Имя местного священника.]
 What signifies his barren shine,
     Of moral powers an' reason?
 His English style, an' gesture fine
     Are a' clean out o' season.
 Like Socrates or Antonine,
     Or some auld pagan heathen,
 The moral man he does define,
     But ne'er a word o' faith in
         That's right that day.
 In guid time comes an antidote
     Against sic poison'd nostrum;
 For Peebles,* frae the water-fit,
     Ascends the holy rostrum:
 See, up he's got, the word o' God,
     An' meek an' mim has view'd it,
 While Common-sense has taen the road,
     An' aff, an' up the Cowgate**
         Fast, fast that day.
 
 [ * Rev. Wm. Peebles of Newton-upon-Ayr.]
 [ ** A street so called which faces the tent in
  Mauchline.—R. B.]
 Wee Miller* neist the guard relieves,
     An' Orthodoxy raibles,
 Tho' in his heart he weel believes,
     An' thinks it auld wives' fables:
 But faith! the birkie wants a manse,
     So, cannilie he hums them;
 Altho' his carnal wit an' sense
     Like hafflins-wise o'ercomes him
         At times that day.
 
 [ * Rev. Alex. Miller, afterward of Kilmaurs.] 
 Now, butt an' ben, the change-house fills,
     Wi' yill-caup commentators;
 Here 's cryin out for bakes and gills,
     An' there the pint-stowp clatters;
 While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang,
     Wi' logic an' wi' scripture,
 They raise a din, that in the end
     Is like to breed a rupture
         O' wrath that day.
 Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair
     Than either school or college;
 It kindles wit, it waukens lear,
     It pangs us fou o' knowledge:
 Be't whisky-gill or penny wheep,
     Or ony stronger potion,
 It never fails, or drinkin deep,
     To kittle up our notion,
         By night or day.
 The lads an' lasses, blythely bent
     To mind baith saul an' body,
 Sit round the table, weel content,
     An' steer about the toddy:
 On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk,
     They're makin observations;
 While some are cozie i' the neuk,
     An' forming assignations
         To meet some day.
 But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts,
     Till a' the hills are rairin,
 And echoes back return the shouts;
     Black Russell is na sparin:
 His piercin words, like Highlan' swords,
     Divide the joints an' marrow;
 His talk o' Hell, whare devils dwell,
     Our vera "sauls does harrow"
         Wi' fright that day!
 A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,
     Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane,
 Whase raging flame, an' scorching heat,
     Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!
 The half-asleep start up wi' fear,
     An' think they hear it roarin;
 When presently it does appear,
     'Twas but some neibor snorin
         Asleep that day.
 'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell,
     How mony stories past;
 An' how they crouded to the yill,
     When they were a' dismist;
 How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups,
     Amang the furms an' benches;
 An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps,
     Was dealt about in lunches
         An' dawds that day.
 In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife,
     An' sits down by the fire,
 Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife;
     The lasses they are shyer:
 The auld guidmen, about the grace
     Frae side to side they bother;
 Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
     An' gies them't like a tether,
         Fu' lang that day.
 Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
     Or lasses that hae naething!
 Sma' need has he to say a grace,
     Or melvie his braw claithing!
 O wives, be mindfu' ance yoursel'
     How bonie lads ye wanted;
 An' dinna for a kebbuck-heel
     Let lasses be affronted
         On sic a day!
 Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow,
     Begins to jow an' croon;
 Some swagger hame the best they dow,
     Some wait the afternoon.
 At slaps the billies halt a blink,
     Till lasses strip their shoon:
 Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink,
     They're a' in famous tune
         For crack that day.
 How mony hearts this day converts
     O' sinners and o' lasses!
 Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane
     As saft as ony flesh is:
 There's some are fou o' love divine;
     There's some are fou o' brandy;
 An' mony jobs that day begin,
     May end in houghmagandie
         Some ither day.
Переводчик: 
Маршак Самуил Яковлевич

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