Избранные стихи

Враги, испив из сердца кровь,

Жить стали  веселей;

Чем больше пили, тем любовь

В груди цвела сильней.

Джон был герой, героев  кровь

Содержит благодать,

Её, отведав вновь и вновь,

Таким же можешь стать.

Она начнёт бодрить и греть,

Даст радости прилив;

Заставит вдовье сердце петь,

Глаза слезой омыв.

Пей за Ячменное Зерно,

Пусть множится, растёт;

Всегда в Шотландии оно

Найдёт себе почёт!

" Standard English Translation

Small, sleek, cowering, timorous beast, O, what a panic is in your breast!

You need not start away so hasty With hurrying scamper!

I would be loath to run and chase you, With murdering plough-staff.

I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, And justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor, earth born companion And fellow mortal!

I doubt not, sometimes, but you may steal; What then? Poor beast, you must live!

An odd ear in twenty-four sheaves Is a small request;

I will get a blessing with what is left, And never miss it.

Your small house, too, in ruin!

It's feeble walls the winds are scattering! And nothing now, to build a new one, Of coarse grass green!

And bleak December's winds coming, Both bitter and keen!

You saw the fields laid bare and wasted, And weary winter coming fast,

And cozy here, beneath the blast, You thought to dwell,

Till crash! the cruel plough past Out through your cell.

That small bit heap of leaves and stubble, Has cost you many a weary nibble!

Now you are turned out, for all your trouble, Without house or holding,

To endure the winter's sleety dribble, And hoar-frost cold.