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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 14
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Whaur were ye than?
An’ there were a’ the lures o’ life,
There pleesure skirlin’ on the fife,
There anger, wi’ the hotchin’ knife
Ground shairp in Hell —
My conscience! – you that’s like a wife! —
Whaur was yoursel’?
I ken it fine: just waitin’ here,
To gar the evil waur appear,
To clart the guid, confüse the clear,
Misca’ the great,
My conscience! an’ to raise a steer
Whan a’s ower late.
Sic-like, some tyke grawn auld and blind,
Whan thieves brok’ through the gear to p’ind,
Has lain his dozened length an’ grinned
At the disaster;
An’ the morn’s mornin’, wud’s the wind,
Yokes on his master.
XV
TO DOCTOR JOHN BROWN
Whan the dear doctor, dear to a’,
Was still among us here belaw,
I set my pipes his praise to blaw
Wi’ a’ my speerit;
But noo, dear doctor! he’s awa’
An’ ne’er can hear it.
By Lyne and Tyne, by Thames and Tees,
By a’ the various river Dee’s,
In Mars and Manors ’yont the seas
Or here at hame,
Whaure’er there’s kindly folk to please,
They ken your name.
They ken your name, they ken your tyke,
They ken the honey from your byke;
But mebbe after a’ your fyke,
(The trüth to tell)
It’s just your honest Rab they like,
An’ no’ yoursel’.
As at the gowff, some canny play’r
Should tee a common ba’ wi’ care —
Should flourish and deleever fair
His souple shintie —
An’ the ba’ rise into the air,
A leevin’ lintie:
Sae in the game we writers play,
There comes to some a bonny day,
When a dear ferlie shall repay
Their years o’ strife,
An’ like your Rab, their things o’ clay
Spreid wings o’ life.
Ye scarce deserved it, I’m afraid —
You that had never learned the trade,
But just some idle mornin’ strayed
Into the schüle,
An’ picked the fiddle up an’ played
Like Neil himsel’.
Your e’e was gleg, your fingers dink;
Ye didna fash yoursel’ to think,
But wove, as fast as puss can link,
Your denty wab: —
Ye stapped your pen into the ink,
An’ there was Rab!
Sinsyne, whaure’er your fortune lay
By dowie den, by canty brae,
Simmer an’ winter, nicht an’ day,
Rab was aye wi’ ye;
An’ a’ the folk on a’ the way
Were blithe to see ye.
O sir, the gods are kind indeed,
An’ hauld ye for an honoured heid,
That for a wee bit clarkit screed
Sae weel reward ye,
An’ lend – puir Rabbie bein’ deid —
His ghaist to guard ye.
For though, whaure’er yoursel’ may be,
We’ve just to turn an’ glisk a wee,
An’ Rab at heel we’re shüre to see
Wi’ gladsome caper: —
The bogle of a bogle, he —
A ghaist o’ paper!
And as the auld-farrant hero sees
In Hell a bogle Hercules,
Pit there the lesser deid to please,
An’ there were a’ the lures o’ life,
There pleesure skirlin’ on the fife,
There anger, wi’ the hotchin’ knife
Ground shairp in Hell —
My conscience! – you that’s like a wife! —
Whaur was yoursel’?
I ken it fine: just waitin’ here,
To gar the evil waur appear,
To clart the guid, confüse the clear,
Misca’ the great,
My conscience! an’ to raise a steer
Whan a’s ower late.
Sic-like, some tyke grawn auld and blind,
Whan thieves brok’ through the gear to p’ind,
Has lain his dozened length an’ grinned
At the disaster;
An’ the morn’s mornin’, wud’s the wind,
Yokes on his master.
XV
TO DOCTOR JOHN BROWN
Whan the dear doctor, dear to a’,
Was still among us here belaw,
I set my pipes his praise to blaw
Wi’ a’ my speerit;
But noo, dear doctor! he’s awa’
An’ ne’er can hear it.
By Lyne and Tyne, by Thames and Tees,
By a’ the various river Dee’s,
In Mars and Manors ’yont the seas
Or here at hame,
Whaure’er there’s kindly folk to please,
They ken your name.
They ken your name, they ken your tyke,
They ken the honey from your byke;
But mebbe after a’ your fyke,
(The trüth to tell)
It’s just your honest Rab they like,
An’ no’ yoursel’.
As at the gowff, some canny play’r
Should tee a common ba’ wi’ care —
Should flourish and deleever fair
His souple shintie —
An’ the ba’ rise into the air,
A leevin’ lintie:
Sae in the game we writers play,
There comes to some a bonny day,
When a dear ferlie shall repay
Their years o’ strife,
An’ like your Rab, their things o’ clay
Spreid wings o’ life.
Ye scarce deserved it, I’m afraid —
You that had never learned the trade,
But just some idle mornin’ strayed
Into the schüle,
An’ picked the fiddle up an’ played
Like Neil himsel’.
Your e’e was gleg, your fingers dink;
Ye didna fash yoursel’ to think,
But wove, as fast as puss can link,
Your denty wab: —
Ye stapped your pen into the ink,
An’ there was Rab!
Sinsyne, whaure’er your fortune lay
By dowie den, by canty brae,
Simmer an’ winter, nicht an’ day,
Rab was aye wi’ ye;
An’ a’ the folk on a’ the way
Were blithe to see ye.
O sir, the gods are kind indeed,
An’ hauld ye for an honoured heid,
That for a wee bit clarkit screed
Sae weel reward ye,
An’ lend – puir Rabbie bein’ deid —
His ghaist to guard ye.
For though, whaure’er yoursel’ may be,
We’ve just to turn an’ glisk a wee,
An’ Rab at heel we’re shüre to see
Wi’ gladsome caper: —
The bogle of a bogle, he —
A ghaist o’ paper!
And as the auld-farrant hero sees
In Hell a bogle Hercules,
Pit there the lesser deid to please,
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Последний отзыв
Книга дельная. Без воды, приводятся реальные кейсы и способы их разрешения. Много практичных полезных советов и методик. Кое-что уже испробовала в дел...
Далее