Читать книгу Из полного собрания бессмыслиц (с параллельным текстом на английском языке) - Эдвард Лир - Страница 3

Our mother was the Pussy-cat,

Our father was the Owl,

And so we’re partly little beasts

And partly little fowl,

The brothers of our family

Have feathers and they hoot,

While all the sisters dress in fur

And have long tails to boot.

          We all believe that little mice,

          For food are singularly nice.

Our mother died long years ago.

She was a lovely cat

Her tail was 5 feet long, and grey

With stripes, but what of that?

In Sila forest on the East

Of far Calabria’s shore

She tumbled from a lofty tree —

None ever saw her more.

Our owly father long was ill

From sorrow and surprise,

But with the feathers of his tail

He wiped his weeping eyes.

And in the hollow of a tree

In Sila’s inmost maze

We made a happy home and there

We pass our obvious days.

From Reggian Cosenza

Many owls about us flit

And bring us worldly news

For which we do not care a bit.

We watch the sun each morning rise,

Beyond Tarento’s strait;

We go out pleasure seeking,

Before it gets too late;

And when the evening shades begin

To lengthen from the trees

Yoy’ll find us merrily dancing

As sure as bees is bees.

We wander up and down the shore

Or tumble over head and heels,

But never, never more,

Can see the far Gromboolian plains

Or weep as we could once have wept

O’er many a vanished scene:

This is the way our father moans —

He is so very green.

Our father still preserves his voice,

And when he sees a star

He often sings to the strings of that

Original guitar.

The pot in which our parents took

The honey in their boat,

But all the money has been spent,

Beside the 5-pound note.

The owls who come and bring us nows

Are often sent away

Because we take no interest

In poltix of the day.