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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 14
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IV
A MILE AN’ A BITTOCK
A mile an’ a bittock, a mile or twa,
Abüne the burn, ayont the law,
Davie an’ Donal’ an’ Cherlie an’ a’,
An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!
Ane went hame wi’ the ither, an’ then
The ither went hame wi’ the ither twa men,
An’ baith wad return him the service again,
An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!
The clocks were chappin’ in house an’ ha’,
Eleeven, twal an’ ane an’ twa;
An’ the guidman’s face was turnt to the wa’
An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!
A wind got up frae affa the sea,
It blew the stars as clear’s could be,
It blew in the een of a’ o’ the three,
An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!
Noo, Davie was first to get sleep in his head,
“The best o’ frien’s maun twine,” he said;
“I’m weariet, an’ here I’m awa’ to my bed.”
An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!
Twa o’ them walkin’ an’ crackin’ their lane,
The mornin’ licht cam grey an’ plain,
An’ the birds they yammert on stick an’ stane,
An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly!
O years ayont, O years awa’,
My lads, ye’ll mind whate’er befa’ —
My lads, ye’ll mind on the bield o’ the law,
When the müne was shinin’ clearly.
V
A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN
The clinkum-clank o’ Sabbath bells
Noo to the hoastin’ rookery swells,
Noo faintin’ laigh in shady dells,
Sounds far an’ near,
An’ through the simmer kintry tells
Its tale o’ cheer.
An’ noo, to that melodious play,
A’ deidly awn the quiet sway —
A’ ken their solemn holiday,
Bestial an’ human,
The singin’ lintie on the brae,
The restin’ plou’man.
He, mair than a’ the lave o’ men,
His week completit joys to ken;
Half-dressed, he daunders out an’ in,
Perplext wi’ leisure;
An’ his raxt limbs he’ll rax again
Wi’ painfü’ pleesure.
The steerin’ mither strang afit
Noo shoos the bairnies but a bit;
Noo cries them ben, their Sinday shüit
To scart upon them,
Or sweeties in their pooch to pit,
Wi’ blessin’s on them.
The lasses, clean frae tap to taes,
Are busked in crunklin’ underclaes;
The gartened hose, the weel-fllled stays,
The nakit shift,
A’ bleached on bonny greens for days,
An’ white’s the drift.
An’ noo to face the kirkward mile:
The guidman’s hat o’ dacent style,
The blackit shoon we noo maun fyle
As white’s the miller:
A waefü’ peety tae, to spile
The warth o’ siller.
Our Marg’et, aye sae keen to crack,
Douce-stappin’ in the stoury track,
Her emeralt goun a’ kiltit back
Frae snawy coats,
White-ankled, leads the kirkward pack
Wi’ Dauvit Groats.
A thocht ahint, in runkled breeks,
A’ spiled wi’ lyin’ by for weeks,
The guidman follows closs, an’ cleiks
The sonsie missis;
His sarious face at aince bespeaks
The day that this is.
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Книга дельная. Без воды, приводятся реальные кейсы и способы их разрешения. Много практичных полезных советов и методик. Кое-что уже испробовала в дел...
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