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Книга довольно хорошо написана в виде рассказов старого человека молодому парню, основанных на событиях его реальной жизни, охватывающей период с нача...
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Southerly Busters
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And (with an angry stamp)
Declared I made too free by half
"A-rushing of his camp."
I begged him to be calm, and not
Apologise to me;
He told me I might "go to pot"
(Wherever that may be);
And growled a muttered curse or two
Expressive of his views
Of men and things, and squatters too,
New chums and jackeroos.
But economical he was
With his melodious voice;
I think the reason was because
His epithets were choice.
I said – "Old man, I fain would know
The cause of thy distress;
What sorrows cloud thine aged brow
I cannot even guess.
"There's anguish on thy wrinkled face,
And passion in thine eye,
Expressing anything but grace,
But why, old man, oh! why?
"A sympathising friend you'll find
In me, old man, d'ye see?
So if you've aught upon your mind
Just pour it into me."
He gravely shook his grizzled head
I rather touched him there —
And something indistinct he said
(I think he meant to swear).
He made a gesture with his hand,
He saw I meant him well;
He said he was a shepherd, and
"A takin' of a spell."
He said he was an ill-used bird,
And squatters they might be —
(He used a very naughty word
Commencing with a D.)
I'd read of shepherds in the lore
Of Thessaly and Greece,
And had a china one at home
Upon the mantelpiece.
I'd read about their loves and hates,
As hot as Yankee stoves,
And how they broke each other's pates
In fair Arcadian groves;
But nothing in my ancient friend
Was like Arcadian types:
No fleecy flocks had he to tend,
No crook or shepherds' pipes.
No shepherdess was near at hand,
And, if there were, I guessed
She'd never suffer that old man
To take her to his breast!
No raven locks had he to fall,
And didn't seem to me
To be the sort of thing at all
A shepherd ought to be.
I thought of all the history.
I'd studied when a boy —
Of Paris and Ænone, and
The siege of ancient Troy.
I thought, could Helen contemplate
This party on the log,
She would the race of shepherds' hate
Like Brahmins hate a dog.
It seemed a very certain thing
That, since the world began,
No shepherd ever was like him,
From Paris down to Pan.
I said – "Old man, you've settled now
Another dream of youth;
I always understood, I vow,
Mythology was truth
"Until I saw thy bandy legs
And sorrow-laden brow,
But, sure as ever eggs is eggs,
I cannot think so now.
"For, an a shepherd thou should'st be,
Declared I made too free by half
"A-rushing of his camp."
I begged him to be calm, and not
Apologise to me;
He told me I might "go to pot"
(Wherever that may be);
And growled a muttered curse or two
Expressive of his views
Of men and things, and squatters too,
New chums and jackeroos.
But economical he was
With his melodious voice;
I think the reason was because
His epithets were choice.
I said – "Old man, I fain would know
The cause of thy distress;
What sorrows cloud thine aged brow
I cannot even guess.
"There's anguish on thy wrinkled face,
And passion in thine eye,
Expressing anything but grace,
But why, old man, oh! why?
"A sympathising friend you'll find
In me, old man, d'ye see?
So if you've aught upon your mind
Just pour it into me."
He gravely shook his grizzled head
I rather touched him there —
And something indistinct he said
(I think he meant to swear).
He made a gesture with his hand,
He saw I meant him well;
He said he was a shepherd, and
"A takin' of a spell."
He said he was an ill-used bird,
And squatters they might be —
(He used a very naughty word
Commencing with a D.)
I'd read of shepherds in the lore
Of Thessaly and Greece,
And had a china one at home
Upon the mantelpiece.
I'd read about their loves and hates,
As hot as Yankee stoves,
And how they broke each other's pates
In fair Arcadian groves;
But nothing in my ancient friend
Was like Arcadian types:
No fleecy flocks had he to tend,
No crook or shepherds' pipes.
No shepherdess was near at hand,
And, if there were, I guessed
She'd never suffer that old man
To take her to his breast!
No raven locks had he to fall,
And didn't seem to me
To be the sort of thing at all
A shepherd ought to be.
I thought of all the history.
I'd studied when a boy —
Of Paris and Ænone, and
The siege of ancient Troy.
I thought, could Helen contemplate
This party on the log,
She would the race of shepherds' hate
Like Brahmins hate a dog.
It seemed a very certain thing
That, since the world began,
No shepherd ever was like him,
From Paris down to Pan.
I said – "Old man, you've settled now
Another dream of youth;
I always understood, I vow,
Mythology was truth
"Until I saw thy bandy legs
And sorrow-laden brow,
But, sure as ever eggs is eggs,
I cannot think so now.
"For, an a shepherd thou should'st be,
Последний отзыв
Книга довольно хорошо написана в виде рассказов старого человека молодому парню, основанных на событиях его реальной жизни, охватывающей период с нача...
Далее