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В борьбе за власть есть первые; есть вторые; и есть 6ыдло (из канала BS "Без Слёз").
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What are ye, when the heart is desolate?
A few more years of labour, and slow breath—
Till death benign hath overtaken death."
BUSCOMBE; OR, A MICHAELMAS GOOSE
When I was Head of Blunders school,
Before the age of stokers,
Compelled by rank to look a fool
Betwixt a pair of "chokers,"
Tom Tanner's father's wrote, to say
That we should both of us come,
To spend Saint Michael's holiday
At the Vicarage of Buscombe.
One trifle marred this merry plan—
I had contrived, though barr'd up,
To typify the future man,
By getting very hard up.
Oh bimetallic champion, some
New ratio doth seem proper,
When the circulating medium
Has fallen to half a copper.
Vile mammon hence! Thy low amount
Too paltry is to mope for;
The more we have in hand to count,
The less in heart to hope for.
Bright youth itself is golden ore,
And health the best gold-beater:
Without a sigh for two pence more,
We passed the gates of Peter.
A nod suffices surly Cop,
Who grins his bona fides;
As Cerberus preferred his sop
To Orpheus and Alcides.
But Mother Cop! Her cooking knack
Would conquer fifty Catos—
The Queen of tarts, and tuck, and tack,
And cream, and fried potatoes.
And rashers! Sweet Ulysses, say
Old Homer was mistaken;
The Goddess must have had her way,
And turned thee into bacon.
That Circe came, and wished us joy,
And said, "Goodbye, my dearie!"
Because I was an honest boy,
And pauper tneo ære.
So Tom and I, like men on strike,
Shook hands with all our cronies,
Walked fifty yards, to save the pike,
And jumped upon our ponies.
Of apples, nuts, and goose galore
I chattered, like a stupid,
And thought of shooting coneys, more
Than being shot by Cupid.
At racing pace the turnpike road
(Great Western, in this quicker age)
Was swallowed up with whip and goad,
And soon we saw the Vicarage.
A sweet seclusion, to forget
The world and its disasters,
And fill the mind with mignonette,
Clove-pinks, and German asters;
In pensive, or in playful mood,
To saunter here, and dally
With leafy calm of solitude,
Or sunshine of the valley.
The Vicar loved his parish well,
And well was he loved by it;
Religion did not him compel
To harass and defy it
No price he charged for Heavenly love,
No discount on Resurgo;
His conscience told him—one side-shove
Is worth ten kicks a tergo.
But while the path of life he showed
To win the Christian guerdon,
No post was he, to point the road,
But a man to share the burden.
The lapse of years made manifest
The sanctuary of holy age;
As clearer grows the ring-dove's nest,
When time hath stripp'd the foliage.
A few more years of labour, and slow breath—
Till death benign hath overtaken death."
BUSCOMBE; OR, A MICHAELMAS GOOSE
When I was Head of Blunders school,
Before the age of stokers,
Compelled by rank to look a fool
Betwixt a pair of "chokers,"
Tom Tanner's father's wrote, to say
That we should both of us come,
To spend Saint Michael's holiday
At the Vicarage of Buscombe.
One trifle marred this merry plan—
I had contrived, though barr'd up,
To typify the future man,
By getting very hard up.
Oh bimetallic champion, some
New ratio doth seem proper,
When the circulating medium
Has fallen to half a copper.
Vile mammon hence! Thy low amount
Too paltry is to mope for;
The more we have in hand to count,
The less in heart to hope for.
Bright youth itself is golden ore,
And health the best gold-beater:
Without a sigh for two pence more,
We passed the gates of Peter.
A nod suffices surly Cop,
Who grins his bona fides;
As Cerberus preferred his sop
To Orpheus and Alcides.
But Mother Cop! Her cooking knack
Would conquer fifty Catos—
The Queen of tarts, and tuck, and tack,
And cream, and fried potatoes.
And rashers! Sweet Ulysses, say
Old Homer was mistaken;
The Goddess must have had her way,
And turned thee into bacon.
That Circe came, and wished us joy,
And said, "Goodbye, my dearie!"
Because I was an honest boy,
And pauper tneo ære.
So Tom and I, like men on strike,
Shook hands with all our cronies,
Walked fifty yards, to save the pike,
And jumped upon our ponies.
Of apples, nuts, and goose galore
I chattered, like a stupid,
And thought of shooting coneys, more
Than being shot by Cupid.
At racing pace the turnpike road
(Great Western, in this quicker age)
Was swallowed up with whip and goad,
And soon we saw the Vicarage.
A sweet seclusion, to forget
The world and its disasters,
And fill the mind with mignonette,
Clove-pinks, and German asters;
In pensive, or in playful mood,
To saunter here, and dally
With leafy calm of solitude,
Or sunshine of the valley.
The Vicar loved his parish well,
And well was he loved by it;
Religion did not him compel
To harass and defy it
No price he charged for Heavenly love,
No discount on Resurgo;
His conscience told him—one side-shove
Is worth ten kicks a tergo.
But while the path of life he showed
To win the Christian guerdon,
No post was he, to point the road,
But a man to share the burden.
The lapse of years made manifest
The sanctuary of holy age;
As clearer grows the ring-dove's nest,
When time hath stripp'd the foliage.
Другие электронные книги автора Richard Doddridge Blackmore
Последний отзыв
В борьбе за власть есть первые; есть вторые; и есть 6ыдло (из канала BS "Без Слёз").
- Вторые всегда стремятся стать первыми. Но ресурсы власти – у п...
Далее