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Автор

Джон Китс

Год написания книги

2020

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But I call'd her quickly back again

To lay some mair below my head:

A cod she laid below my head,

And served me with due respeck,

And, to salute her wi' a kiss,

I put my arms about her neck.

' Haud aff your hands, young man,' she said,

' And dinna sae uncivil be;

Gif ye hae onie luve for me,

O, wrang na my virginitie!'

Her hair was like the links o' gowd,

Her teeth were like the ivorie,

Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine,

The lass that made the bed to me!

Her bosom was the driven snaw,

Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see;

Her limbs the polish'd marble stane,

The lass that made the bed to me!

I kiss'd her o'er and o'er again,

And ay she wist na what to say.

I laid her 'tween me an' the wa' -

The lassie thocht na lang till day.

Upon the morrow, when we raise,

I thank'd her for her courtesie,

But ay she blush'd, and ay she sigh'd,

And said: – ' Alas, ye've ruin'd me!'

I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne,

While the tear stood twinklin in her e'e.

I said: – ' My lassie, dinna cry,

For ye ay shall mak the bed to me.'

She took her mither's holland sheets,

An' made them a' in sarks to me.

Blythe and merry may she be,

The lass that made the bed to me!

The bonie lass made the bed to me,

The braw lass made the bed to me!

I'll ne'er forget till the day I die,

The lass that made the bed to me.

***

О песне дрозда

которую Роберт Бернс

слышал в день своего рождения -

на рассвете 25 января

Спой, милый дрозд, про летнее тепло,

Пой, птичка, поднимая настроенье,

И у зимы – старухи твоё пенье

Разгладило угрюмое чело.

И в бедности всегда в простых сердцах

Живёт неистребимое терпенье,

Не спрашивая быстрые мгновенья,