Читать книгу A Lowden Sabbath Morn - Robert Louis Stevenson - Страница 1

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 pouch to pit,

Wi' blessin's on them.

The lasses, clean frae tap to taes,

Are busked in crunklin'

underclaes;

The gartened hose, the weel-filled

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,