Whate’er your tense
Ye are imperfect, all!
Ye have deceived the trust I’ve shown
In ye!
Away! The Mighty Must alone
Shall be!
ЗЕМНОМУ ШАРУ. От жалкого несчастливца.
Roll on, thou ball, roll on!
Through pathless realms of Space
Roll on!
What though I’m in a sorry case?
What though I cannot meet my bills?
What though I suffer toothache’s ills?
What though I swallow countless pills?
Never you mind!
Roll on!
Roll on, thou ball, roll on!
Through seas of inky air,
Roll on!
It’s true I have no shirts to wear;
It’s true my butcher’s bill is due;
It’s true my prospects all look blue—
But don’t let that unsettle you:
Never you mind!
Roll on!
(It rolls on).
МИЛАЯ ЭЛИС БРАУН
It was a robber’s daughter, and her name was Alice Brown,
Her father was the terror of a small Italian town;
Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing;
But it isn’t of her parents that I’m going for to sing.
As Alice was a-sitting at her window-sill one day
A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way;
She cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true,
That she thought, “I could be happy with a gentleman like you!”
And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen;
She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten,
A sorter in the Custom House it was his daily road
(The Custom House was fifteen minutes’ walk from her abode).
But Alice was a pious girl and knew it was not wise
To look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes,
So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed—
The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed.
“Oh holy father,” Alice said, “’twould grieve you, would it not?
To discover that I was a most disreputable lot!
Of all unhappy sinners I’m the most unhappy one!”
The padre said “Whatever have you been and gone and done?”
“I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad,
I’ve assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad.
I’ve planned a little burglary and forged a little cheque,
And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!”
The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear—
And said “You mustn’t judge yourself too heavily, my dear—
It’s wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece;
But sins like these one expiates at half-a-crown apiece.
“Girls will be girls—you’re very young and flighty in your mind;
Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find:
We mustn’t be too hard upon these little girlish tricks—
Let’s see—five crimes at half a crown—exactly twelve-and six.”
“Oh father,” little Alice cried, “your kindness makes me weep,
You do these little things for me so singularly cheap—
Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget;
But, oh, there is another crime I haven’t mentioned yet!
“A pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes,—
I’ve noticed at my window, as I’ve sat a-catching flies;
He passes by it every day as certain as can be—
I blush to say I’ve winked at him, and he has winked at me!”
“For shame,” said Father Paul, “my erring daughter! On my word
This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard.
Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand
To a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band!
“This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents so!
They are the most remunerative customers I know;
For many, many years they’ve kept starvation from my doors,
I never knew so criminal a family as yours!
“The common country folk in this insipid neighbourhood
Have nothing to confess, they’re so ridiculously good;
And if you marry anyone respectable at all,
Why, you’ll reform, and what will then become of Father Paul?”
The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown,
And started off in haste to tell the news to Robber Brown;
To tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit,
Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it.
Good Robber Brown he muffled up his anger pretty well,
He said, “I have a notion, and that notion I will tell;
I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits,
And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits.
“I’ve studied human nature, and I know a thing or two;
Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do,
A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall
When she looks upon his body chopped particularly small.”
He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square;
He watched his opportunity and seized him unaware;
He took a life preserver and he hit him on the head,
And Mrs. Brown dissected him before she went to bed.
And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind,
She never more was guilty of a weakness of the kind,
Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty hand
On the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band.
Фрэнсис К. Бернанд, автор многих комедий и бурлесков, долгое время был редактором журнала «Панч» и написал для него многие свои лучшие работы.
Одна из его самых восхитительных песен, с таким успехом исполнявшаяся семьей Вокс, это:
ВЕРНОСТЬ ПОЛЛ
I’ll sing you a song, not very long,
But the story somewhat new
Of William Kidd, who, whatever he did,
To his Poll was always true.
He sailed away in a galliant ship
From the port of old Bristol,
And the last words he uttered,
As his hankercher he fluttered,
Were, “My heart is true to Poll.”
His heart was true to Poll,
His heart was true to Poll.
It’s no matter what you do
If your heart be only true:
And his heart was true to Poll.
’Twas a wreck. William, on shore he swam,
And looked about for an inn;
When a noble savage lady, of a colour rather shady,
Came up with a kind of grin:
“Oh, marry me, and a king you’ll be,
And in a palace loll;
Or we’ll eat you willy-nilly.”
So he gave his hand, did Billy,
But his heart was true to Poll.
Away a twelvemonth sped, and a happy life he led
As the King of the Kikeryboos;
His paint was red and yellar, and he used a big umbrella,
And he wore a pair of over-shoes!
He’d corals and knives, and twenty-six wives,
Whose beauties I cannot here extol;
One day they all revolted,
So he back to Bristol bolted,
For his heart was true to Poll.
His heart was true to Poll,
His heart was true to Poll.
It’s no matter what you do,
If your heart be only true:
And his heart was true to Poll.
Уильям Эрнест Хенли, хотя и более известен своими серьезными работами, становился юмористичным, особенно когда совершал экскурсы в искусственные стихотворные формы.
ВИЛЛАНЕЛЛА
Now ain’t they utterly too-too
(She ses, my Missus mine, ses she)
Them flymy little bits of Blue.
Joe, just you kool ’em—nice and skew
Upon our old meogginee,
Now ain’t they utterly too-too?
They’re better than a pot’n’ a screw,
They’re equal to a Sunday spree,
Them flymy little bits of Blue!
Suppose I put ’em up the flue,
And booze the profits, Joe? Not me.
Now ain’t they utterly too-too?
I do the ’Igh Art fake, I do.
Joe, I’m consummate; and I see
Them flymy little bits of Blue.
Which, Joe, is why I ses to you—
Æsthetic-like, and limp, and free—
Now ain’t they utterly too-too,
Them flymy little bits of Blue?
Юмор Роберта Льюиса Стивенсона заключается в экстравагантности и причудливости мысли и выражения и обычно подчинен более великому замыслу.
Его восхитительные «Детские стихи» демонстрируют тихое озорство и юмористические выдумки.
The lovely cow, all red and white,
I love with all my heart;
She gives me milk with all her might
To eat on apple tart.
The world is so full of a number of things,
I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.
Этот оригинальный стиль детских стихов, которому часто подражали, редко был успешным в руках менее талантливых художников.
Джеймса Мэтью Барри, одного из лучших английских юмористов, невозможно успешно цитировать, потому что его работы встречаются только в законченных рассказах или пьесах, и немногие краткие отрывки выдержат отделение от своего контекста.
Короткий отрывок из «Окна в Фрамс» даст представление о восхитительности юмора Барри.
ЮМОРИСТ О СВОЕМ ПРИЗВАНИИ
Таммас поставил ногу на ведро.
«Я не приписываю себе заслуг, — сказал он скромно в тот вечер, помню, на похоронах Вилли Пьятта, — в том, что могу говорить с некоторой легкостью на темы, которые сделал своими».
«Да, — сказал Т’ноухед, — но меня привлекает не легкость речи. Есть Дэвит Лунан, который может говорить так, будто выучил все по бумажке, и все же я не могу его выносить».
«Дэвит, — сказал Хендри, — не говорит так, чтобы человек мог следовать за ним. Он не идет ровно. Джесс говорит, что он как человек, который вечно на перекрестке и не уверен в своем пути. Но у Таммаса есть слова, а не у каждого они есть».
«Если бы меня попросили выразить дар Таммаса одним словом, — сказал Т’ноухед, — я бы сказал, что у него есть манера. Вот что бы я сказал».
«Ну, полагаю, есть, — признал Таммас, — но, манера или нет, я не смог бы придать остроты своим словам, если бы не мое чувство юмора. Парни, юмор — это то, что придает остроту речи».
«Это то, что делает тебя саркастиком, Таммас, — сказал Хендри, — но я удивляюсь, как ты говоришь юмористические вещи так легко. Некоторые говорят, что ты придумываешь их заранее, но я знаю, что это неправда».
«Нет, не только это неправда, — сказал Таммас, — но это и не могло бы быть правдой. Те, кто говорит такие вещи, а я хорошо знаю, что вы имеете в виду Дэвита Лунана, не имеют ни малейшего представления о том, что такое юмор. Это вещь, которая извергается сама по себе. Некоторые из самых юмористических вещей, которые я когда-либо говорил, вышли, можно сказать, сами собой».
«Полагаю, так оно и есть, — сказал Т’ноухед, — и все же это должен быть ты, кто их извлекает?»
«Нет никаких сомнений в том, что так оно и есть, — сказал Таммас, — ибо я часто наблюдал за собой. Был очень хороший пример вскоре после того, как я женился на Изи. Сын графа встретил меня однажды, примерно в то время, в Тенментс, и он не знал, что Кристи умерла, а я женился снова. «Ну, Хаггарт, — говорит он в своей откровенной манере, — как ваша жена?» «Она очень хорошо, сэр, — отвечаю я, — но она не та, которую вы имеете в виду».
«Ну да, он имел в виду Кристи», — сказал Хендри.
«Это вся история?» — спросил Т’ноухед.
Таммас смотрел на нас странно.
«Никто из вас не смеется, — сказал он, — но уверяю вас, сын графа пошел на восток города, смеясь как ненормальный».
«Но над чем он смеялся?»
«Оу, — сказал Таммас, — юморист не рассказывает, где именно кроется юмор».
«Нет, но когда вы это сказали, вы имели в виду, что это будет юмористично?»
«Я не говорю, что имел, но, как я вам уже говорил, юмор извергается сам по себе».
«Да, но знаете ли вы теперь, над чем сын графа ушел смеясь?»
Таммас заколебался.
«Я не совсем это вижу, — признался он, — но это не редкое дело. Юморист часто не знал бы, что он таков, если бы не то, как он заставляет других людей смеяться. Нельзя ожидать от человека, чтобы он и шутил, и видел ее. Нет, это была бы работа за двоих».
«Ну, это достаточно разумно, но я часто видел, как вы смеетесь, — сказал Хендри, — задолго до того, как смеялись другие люди».
«Несомненно, — объяснил Таммас, — и это потому, что у юмора две стороны, прямо как у пенни. Когда я сам говорю что-то юмористическое, я завишу от других людей, которые должны заметить юмор в этом, будучи сам занят его созданием. Да, но есть вещи, которые я вижу и слышу, что заставляет меня смеяться, и это другая сторона юмора».
«Я никогда не слышал, чтобы это было сказано так просто, — сказал Т’ноухед, — и, черт возьми, я не уверен, не юморист ли я тоже».
«Нет, нет, только не ты, Т’ноухед», — горячо сказал Таммас.
Сэр Оуэн Симан, нынешний редактор «Панча», также является одним из лучших пародистов всех времен. Его юмористические стихи всех разновидностей находятся в первом ряду.
НОКТЮРН В «ДАНИЭЛИ» (Навеяно «Токкатой Галуппи» Браунинга.)
Caro mio, Pulcinello, kindly hear my wail of woe
Lifted from a noble structure—late Palazzo Dandolo.
This is Venice, you will gather, which is full of precious “stones,”
Tintorettos, picture-postcards, and remains of Doges’ bones.
Not of these am I complaining; they are mostly seen by day,
And they only try your patience in an inoffensive way.
But at night, when over Lido rises Dian (that’s the moon),
And the vicious vaporetti cease to vex the still lagoon;
When the final trovatore, singing something old and cheap,
Hurls his tremolo crescendo full against my beauty sleep;
When I hear the Riva’s loungers in debate beneath my bower
Summing up (about 1.30) certain questions of the hour;
Then across my nervous system falls the shrill mosquito’s boom,
And it’s “O, to be in England,” where the may is on the bloom.
I admit the power of Music to inflate the savage breast—
There are songs devoid of language which are quite among the best;
But the present orchestration, with its poignant oboe part,
Is, in my obscure opinion, barely fit to rank as Art.
Will it solace me to-morrow, being hit in either eye,
To be told that this is nothing to the season in July?
Shall I go for help to Ruskin? Would it ease my pimply brow
If I found the doges suffered much as I am suffering now?
If identical probosces pinked the lovers who were bored
By the sentimental tinkling of Galuppi’s clavichord?
That’s from Browning (Robert Browning)—I have left his works at home,
And the poem I allude to isn’t in the Tauchnitz tome;
But, if memory serves me rightly, he was very much concerned
At the thought that in the sequel Venice reaped what Venice earned.
Was he thinking of mosquitoes? Did he mean their poisoned crop?
Was it through ammonia tincture that “the kissing had to stop”?
As for later loves—for Venice never quite mislaid her spell—
Madame Sand and dear De Musset occupied my own hotel!
On the very floor below me, I have heard the patron say,
They were put in No. 13 (No. 36, to-day).
But they parted—“elle et lui” did—and it now occurs to me
That mosquitoes came between them in this “kingdom by the sea.”
Poor dead lovers, and such brains, too! What am I that I should swear
When the creatures munch my forehead, taking more than I can spare?
Should I live to meet the morning, should the climate readjust
Any reparable fragments left upon my outer crust,
Why, at least I still am extant, and a dog that sees the sun
Has the pull of Danieli’s den of “lions,” dead and done.
Courage! I will keep my vigil on the balcony till day
Like a knight in full pyjamas who would rather run away.
Courage! let me ope the casement, let the shutters be withdrawn;
Let scirocco, breathing on me, check a tendency to yawn;
There’s the sea! and—Ecco l’alba! Ha! (in other words) the Dawn!
ДЖУЛИИ ПОД ЗАМКОМ
(Форма подарка при помолвке в Америке — это браслет на лодыжку, закрепленный навесным замком, ключ от которого хранит другая сторона.)
When like a bud my Julia blows
In lattice-work of silken hose,
Pleasant I deem it is to note
How, ’neath the nimble petticoat,
Above her fairy shoe is set
The circumvolving zonulet.
And soothly for the lover’s ear
A perfect bliss it is to hear
About her limb so lithe and lank
My Julia’s ankle-bangle clank.
Not rudely tight, for ’twere a sin
To corrugate her dainty skin;
Nor yet so large that it might fare
Over her foot at unaware;
But fashioned nicely with a view
To let her airy stocking through:
So as, when Julia goes to bed,
Of all her gear disburdenèd,
This ring at least she shall not doff
Because she cannot take it off.
And since thereof I hold the key,
She may not taste of liberty,
Not though she suffer from the gout,
Unless I choose to let her out.
ПОД ВЫВЕСКОЙ ПЕТУХА (ФРАНЦУЗСКИЙ СТИЛЬ, 1898)
(Будучи одой в продолжение «Вклада в песню французской истории», посвященной, без злобы или разрешения, мистеру Джорджу Мередиту)
I
Rooster her sign,
Rooster her pugnant note, she struts
Evocative, amazon spurs aprick at heel;
Nid-nod the authentic stump
Of the once ensanguined comb vermeil as wine;
With conspuent doodle-doo
Hails breach o’ the hectic dawn of yon New Year,
Last issue up to date
Of quiverful Fate
Evolved spontaneous; hails with tonant trump
The spiriting prime o’ the clashed carillon-peal;
Ruffling her caudal plumes derisive of scuts;
Inconscient how she stalks an immarcessibly absurd
Bird.
II
Mark where her Equatorial Pioneer
Delirant on the tramp goes littoralwise.
His Flag at furl, portmanteaued; drains to the dregs
The penultimate brandy-bottle, coal-on-the-head-piece gift
Of who avenged the Old Sea-Rover’s smirch.
Marchant he treads the all-along of inarable drift
On dubiously connivent legs,
The facile prey of predatory flies;
Panting for further; sworn to lurch
Empirical on to the Menelik-buffered, enhavened blue,
Rhyming—see Cantique I.—with doodle-doo.
III
Infuriate she kicked against Imperial fact;
Vulnant she felt
What pin-stab should have stained Another’s pelt
Puncture her own Colonial lung-balloon,
Volant to nigh meridian. Whence rebuffed,
The perjured Scythian she lacked
At need’s pinch, sick with spleen of the rudely cuffed
Below her breath she cursed; she cursed the hour
When on her spring for him the young Tyrannical broke
Amid the unhallowed wedlock’s vodka-shower,
She passionate, he dispassionate; tricked
Her wits to eye-blind; borrowed the ready as for dower;
Till from the trance of that Hymettus-moon
She woke,
A nuptial-knotted derelict;
Pensioned with Rescripts other aid declined
By the plumped leech saturate urging Peace
In guise of heavy-armed Gospeller to men,
Tyrannical unto fraternal equal liberal, her. Not she;
Not till Alsace her consanguineous find
What red deteutonising artillery
Shall shatter her beer-reek alien police
The just-now pluripollent; not till then.
IV
More pungent yet the esoteric pain
Squeezing her pliable vitals nourishes feud
Insanely grumous, grumously insane.
For lo!
Past common balmly on the Bordereau,
Churns she the skim o’ the gutter’s crust
With Anti-Judaic various carmagnole,
Whooped praise of the Anti-just;
Her boulevard brood
Gyratory in convolvements militant-mad;
Theatrical of faith in the Belliform,
Her Og,
Her Monstrous. Fled what force she had
To buckle the jaw-gape, wide agog
For the Preconcerted One,
The Anticipated, ripe to clinch the whole;
Queen-bee to hive the hither and thither volant swarm.
Bides she his coming; adumbrates the new
Expurgatorial Divine,
Her final effulgent Avatar,
Postured outside a trampling mastodon
Black as her Baker’s charger; towering; visibly gorged
With blood of traitors. Knee-grip stiff,
Spine straightened, on he rides;
Embossed the Patriot’s brow with hieroglyph
Of martial dossiers, nothing forged