Эдвард Лир Из полного собрания бессмыслиц Nonsense verse and songs Self-portrait of the laureate of nonsense How pleasant to know Mr. Lear! Who has written such volumes of stuff! Some think him ill-tempered and queer, But a few think him pleasant enough. His mind is concrete and fastidious, His nose is remarkably big; His visage is more of less hideous, His beard it resembles a wig. He has ears, and two eyes, and ten fingers, Leastways if you reckon two thumbs, Long ago he was one of the singers, But now he is one of the dumbs. He sits in a beautiful parlour, With hundreds of books on the wall; He drinks a great deal of Marsala, But never gets tipsy at all. He has many friends, laymen and clerical; Old Foss is the name of his cat; His body is perfectly spherical, He weareth a runcible hat. When he walks in a waterproof white, The children run after him so! Calling out, “He's come out in his night- Gown, that crazy old Englishman, oh!” He weeps by the side of the ocean, He weeps on the top of the hill; He purchases pancakes and lotion, And chocolate shrimps from the mill. He reads but he cannot speak Spanish, He cannot abide ginger-beer: Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish, How pleasant to know Mr. Lear! The Owl and the Pussy-cat I The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat, They took some honey, and plenty of money, Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, “O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!” II Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?” Thwy sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the Bong-tree grows And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose. III “Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will.” So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon. The Children of the Owl and the Pussy-cat Our mother was the Pussy-cat, Our father was the Owl, And so we’re partly little beasts And partly little fowl, The brothers of our family Have feathers and they hoot, While all the sisters dress in fur And have long tails to boot. We all believe that little mice, For food are singularly nice. Our mother died long years ago. She was a lovely cat Her tail was 5 feet long, and grey With stripes, but what of that? In Sila forest on the East Of far Calabria’s shore She tumbled from a lofty tree — None ever saw her more. Our owly father long was ill From sorrow and surprise, But with the feathers of his tail He wiped his weeping eyes. And in the hollow of a tree In Sila’s inmost maze We made a happy home and there We pass our obvious days. From Reggian Cosenza Many owls about us flit And bring us worldly news For which we do not care a bit. We watch the sun each morning rise, Beyond Tarento’s strait; We go out pleasure seeking, Before it gets too late; And when the evening shades begin To lengthen from the trees Yoy’ll find us merrily dancing As sure as bees is bees. We wander up and down the shore Or tumble over head and heels, But never, never more, Can see the far Gromboolian plains Or weep as we could once have wept O’er many a vanished scene: This is the way our father moans — He is so very green. Our father still preserves his voice, And when he sees a star He often sings to the strings of that Original guitar. The pot in which our parents took The honey in their boat, But all the money has been spent, Beside the 5-pound note. The owls who come and bring us nows Are often sent away Because we take no interest In poltix of the day. |
