Роберт Стивенсон
Вересковыйэль
“Heather Ale” by Robert Luis Stevenson
From the bonny bells of heather
They brewed a drink long-syne,
Was sweeter far then honey,
Was stronger far than wine.
They brewed it and they drank it,
And lay in a blessed swound
For days and days together
In their dwellings underground.
There rose a king in Scotland,
A fell man to his foes,
He smote the Picts in battle,
He hunted them like roes.
Over miles of the red mountain
He hunted as they fled,
And strewed the dwarfish bodies
Of the dying and the dead.
Summer came in the country,
Red was the heather bell;
But the manner of the brewing
Was none alive to tell.
In graves that were like children’s
On many a mountain head,
The Brewsters of the Heather
Lay numbered with the dead.
The king in the red moorland
Rode on a summer’s day;
And the bees hummed, and the curlews
Cried beside the way.
The king rode, and was angry,
Black was his brow and pale,
To rule in a land of heather
And lack the Heather Ale.
It fortuned that his vassals,
Riding free on the heath,
Came on a stone that was fallen
And vermin hid beneath.
Rudely plucked from their hiding,
Never a word they spoke;
A son and his aged father —
Last of the dwarfish folk.
The king sat high on his charger,
He looked on the little men;
And the dwarfish and swarthy couple
Looked at the king again.
Down by the shore he had them;
And there on the giddy brink —
«I will give you life, ye vermin,
For the secret of the drink.»
There stood the son and father,
And they looked high and low;
The heather was red around them,
The sea rumbled below.
And up and spoke the father,
Shrill was his voice to hear:
«I have a word in private,
A word for the royal ear.
«Life is dear to the aged,
And honour a little thing;
I would gladly sell the secret,»
Quoth the Pict to the king.
His voice was small as a sparrow’s,
And shrill and wonderful clear:
«I would gladly sell my secret,
Only my son I fear.
«For life is a little matter,
And death is nought to the young;
And I dare not sell my honour
Under the eye of my son.
Take him, O king, and bind him,
And cast him far in the deep;
And it’s I will tell the secret
That I have sworn to keep.»
They took the son and bound him,
Neck and heels in a thong,
And a lad took him and swung him,
And flung him far and strong,
And the sea swallowed his body,
Like that of a child of ten; —
And there on the cliff stood the father,
Last of the dwarfish men.
«True was the word I told you:
Only my son I feared;
For I doubt the sapling courage
That goes without the beard.
But now in vain is the torture,
Fire shall never avail:
Here dies in my bosom
The secret of Heather Ale.»
Подстрочник:
RG From the bonny bells of heather They brewed a drink long-syne,
Из цветущих колокольчиков вереска Они варили питье очень давно
RG Was sweeter far than honey, Was stronger far than wine.
Было слаще намного чем мед, Было крепче намного, чем вино
RG They brewed it and they drank it, And lay in a blessed swound
Они варили его и они пили его, И лежали счастливой толпой
RG For days and days together In their dwellings underground.
Дни и дни вместе В своих жилищах под землей.
RG There rose a king in Scotland, A fell man to his foes,
И вот пришел к власти король Шотландии, Беспощадный человек к своим врагам,
RG He smote the Picts in battle, He hunted them like roes.
Он разбил пиктов в сражении, Он охотился на них как на косуль.
RG Over miles of the red mountain He hunted as they fled,
Мили по красным горам Он преследовал их, убегающих,
RG And strewed the dwarfish bodies Of the dying and the dead.
И устилали [упомянутые горы] карликовые тела Умиравших и мертвых.
RG Summer came in the country, Red was the heather bell;
Лето в стране настало, Красен был вересковый колокольчик,
RG But the manner of the brewing Was none alive to tell.
Hо рецепт варения никто не остался в живых, чтобы рассказать.
RG In graves that were like children's On many a mountain head,
В могилах, которые были как детские, Hа утесах отрогах гор,
RG The Brewsters of the Heather Lay numbered with the dead.
Пивовары вереска Лежали в числе мертвых.
RG The king in the red moorland Rode on a summer's day;
Король красных вересковых пустошей Скакал летним днем,
RG And the bees hummed, and the curlews Cried beside the way.
И пчелы гудели, и кроншнепы , кричали вдоль дороги.
RG The king rode, and was angry, Black was his brow and pale,
Король ехал и был зол. Хмуро было его чело и бледно,
