Английские легенды / English Legends

Английские легенды / English Legends

Д. А. Демидова

Эксклюзивное чтение на английском языке

В книгу вошли лучшие английские легенды: короткие и длинные, печальные и со счастливым концом, но все одинаково красивые и неизменно вызывающие отклик в душе читателя. Текст произведения снабжен грамматическим комментарием и словарем, в который вошли ВСЕ слова, содержащиеся в тексте. Благодаря этому книга подойдет для любого уровня владения английским языком.

Английские легенды / English legends

© Демидова Д.

© ООО «Издательство АСТ», 2018

The Lass of Roch Royal, or, Lord Gregory

It was a wild, stormy night, many years ago since now, when a fair-haired young girl knocked on the gate of the Roch Royal Castle. Her clothes were soaking wet[1 - soaking wet – насквозь мокрый] with rain; her large, sad eyes were moist with tears; and in her arms there was a bundle containing a small baby.

“I am a poor young girl that came from Cappoquin[2 - Cappoquin – Каппоквин],” she cried, “I’m in search of Lord Gregory, pray God I’ll find him! The rain beats my yellow locks and the dew wets me still.

A window-shutter clanged high above her, and a rough female voice shouted:

“Lord Gregory is not here and henceforth can’t be seen, as he is gone to bonny Scotland to bring home his new wife. So leave now these windows and likewise this castle, for it is deep in the sea you should hide your downfall.

“But who will shoe my baby’s little feet?” the girl moaned, in despair. “Who will put gloves on her hands? Who will put a long linen band around her waist? Who will comb her yellow hair with an ivory comb? Who will be her father till Lord Gregory comes home?”

But there was no answer; the gates remained shut.

“Do you recall, darling Gregory,” the unfortunate lass continued, her voice breaking with sorrow, “that night in Cappoquin, when we exchanged pocket handkerchiefs, and, as for me, it was against my will? Your handkerchief was pure linen, love, and mine just coarse cloth, for yours cost a guinea, and mine but a penny? Do you remember, love Gregory, that night in Cappoquin, when we exchanged rings on our fingers, and me—against my will? For yours was pure silver, and as for mine, it was simple tin, for your ring cost a guinea, and mine but one cent.