罗伯特·彭斯诗11首
The Tree of Liberty
Heard ye o' the Tree o' France,
And wat ye what's the name o't?
Around it a' the patriots dance—
Weel Europe kens the fame o't!
It stands where ance the Bastile stood—
A prison built by kings, man,
When Superstition's hellish brood
Kept France in leading-strings, man.
Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit,
Its virtues a' can tell, man;
It raises man aboon the brute,
It mak's him ken himsel', man!
Gif ance the peasant taste a bit,
He's greater than a lord, man,
And wi' the beggar shares a mite
O' a' he can afford, man.
This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth:
To comfort us 't was sent, man,
To gie the sweetest blush o' health,
And mak' us a' content, man!
It clears the een, it cheers the heart,
Mak's high and low guid friends, man,
And he wha acts the traitor's part,
It to perdition sends, man.
My blessings ay attend the chiel,
Wha pitied Gallia's slaves, man,
And staw a branch, spite o' the Deil,
Frae 'yont the western waves, man!
Fair Virtue water'd it wi' care,
And now she sees wi' pride, man,
How weel it buds and blossoms there,
Its branches spreading wide, man.
But vicious folk ay hate to see
The works o' Virtue thrive, man:
The courtly vermin's bann'd the tree,
And grat to see it thrive, man!
King Louis thought to cut it down,
When it was unco sma', man;
For this the watchman cracked his crown,
Cut aff his head and a', man.
A wicked crew syne, on a time,
Did tak' a solemn aith, man,
It ne'er should flourish to its prime—
I wat they pledg'd their faith, man!
Awa they gaed wi' mock parade,
Like beagles hunting game, man,
But soon grew weary o' the trade,
And wish'd they'd been at hame, man.
Fair Freedom, standing by the tree,
Her sons did loudly ca', man.
She sang a sang o' Liberty,
Which pleas'd them ane and a', man.
By her inspir'd, the new-born race
Soon drew the avenging steel, man.
The hirelings ran—her foes gied chase,
And bang'd the despot weel, man.
Let Britain boast her hardy oak,
Her poplar, and her pine, man!
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke,
And o'er her neighbours shine, man!
But seek the forest round and round,
And soon 't will be agreed, man,
That sic a tree can not be found
'Twixt London and the Tweed, man.
Without this tree alake this life
Is but a vale o' woe, man,
A scene o' sorrow mix'd wi' strife,
Nae real joys we know, man;
We labour soon, we labour late,
To feed the titled knave, man,
And a' the comfort we're to get,
Is that ayont the grave, man.
Wi' plenty o' sic trees, I trow,
The warld would live in peace, man.
The sword would help to mak' a plough,
The din o' war wad cease, man.
Like brethren in a common cause,
We'd on each other smile, man;
And equal rights and equal laws
Wad gladden every isle, man.
Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat
Sic halesome, dainty cheer, man!
I'd gie the shoon frae aff my feet,
To taste the fruit o't here, man!
Syne let us pray, Auld England may
Sure plant this far-famed tree, man;
And blythe we'll sing, and herald the day
That gives us liberty, man.
自由树
这棵树已经开花结果，
枝叶广被，七色斑斓。
坏人们可不愿亲眼目睹
道德的事业如此兴旺，
宫廷里的蛆虫下令将它绑住，
看它长得茂盛就眼泪汪汪。
路易王立意将它劈砍，
那时树儿还非常娇柔，
为此守树人砸坏他的王冠，
还一刀砍下了他的狗头。
跟着有一群坏小子，
居然郑重立了志，
决心不让这树长大——
我知道他们还对天宣誓！
他们排开了队伍就起身，
活像一群疯狂的猎犬，
但很快他们就疲于奔命，
悔恨离开了家园！
美人名自由，玉立在树旁，
高声把她的儿子来号召，
她唱了一曲自由之歌，
他们听了一齐叫好。
在她的鼓舞之下，这新生的人民
很快就举起复仇之刀。
走狗们遁逃，志士们穷追，
还把那暴君惩个妙。
让不列颠去夸耀坚实的橡树，
还有她的白杨和青松！
老大的不列颠一度夸过海口，
在邻居中独占上风。
但现在你如在森林里团团搜寻，
你就会发现英国的真情：
从伦敦城一直找到屈微河，
这样的好树就不见一棵！
但是没有这棵树，
人生就只有不尽的忧伤，
悲哀已不胜，纠纷更难当，
决无半点甜蜜可尝！
我们起早又摸黑，
都只为养肥有爵位的流氓！
若问我们的安慰何在？
进了坟墓也渺茫！
一旦有了许多这样的树，
世界的人民就会和平相处。
熔化了刀枪打好犁，
战争烽火也就平息。
我们都是一个事业里的弟兄，
四面八方都是笑容。
平等的权利，平等的法律，
将使一切岛屿都欢腾！
多么清洁美丽的果子——
谁不吃不得好死！
我愿意卖掉我的长靴，
只要能在此地尝到这果子！
让我们祈祷会有一天来到，
古老的英格兰也把这棵名树种好！
这未来的一天呵，让我们放开歌喉，
愉快地迎接自由！
Address to the Unco Guid or the Rigidly Righteous
My Son, these maxims make a rule,
An' lump them aye thegither;
The Rigid Righteous is a fool,
The Rigid Wise anither:
The cleanest corn that ere was dight
May hae some pyles o' caff in;
So ne'er a fellow-creature slight
For random fits o' daffin.
SOLOMON.—Eccles. ch. vii. verse 16.
I
O ye wha are sae guid yoursel',
Sae pious and sae holy,
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell
Your neibours' fauts and folly！
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supplied wi' store o' water;
The heapèd happer's ebbing still,
An' still the clap plays clatter.
II
Hear me, ye venerable core,
As counsel for poor mortals
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door
For glaikit Folly's portals:
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,
Would here propone defences—
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,
Their failings and mischances.
III
Ye see your state wi' theirs compared,
And shudder at the niffer;
But cast a moment's fair regard,
What maks the mighty differ;
Discount what scant occasion gave,
That purity ye pride in;
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave),
Your better art o' hidin.
IV
Think, when your castigated pulse
Gies now and then a wallop!
What ragings must his veins convulse,
That still eternal gallop!
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,
Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But in the teeth o' baith to sail,
It maks an unco lee-way.
V
See Social Life and Glee sit down,
All joyous and unthinking,
Till, quite transmugrified, they're grown
Debauchery and Drinking:
O, would they stay to calculate
Th' eternal consequences;
Or your more dreaded hell to state,
Damnation of expenses!
VI
Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
Tied up in godly laces,
Before ye gie poor Frailty names,
Suppose a change o' cases;
A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug,
A treach'rous inclination—
But, let me whisper i' your lug,
Ye're aiblins nae temptation.
VII
Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman;
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang,
To step aside is human:
One point must still be greatly dark,—
The moving Why they do it;
And just as lamely can ye mark,
How far perhaps they rue it.
VIII
Who made the heart, 'tis He alone
Decidedly can try us;
He knows each chord, its various tone,
Each spring, its various bias:
Then at the balance let's be mute,
We never can adjust it;
What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted.
致好得出奇者，即古板的正经人
我的儿子，送你几句箴言，
合起来可称规律，
古板的正经人是笨虫，
古板的聪明人是蠢驴；
打得最干净的麦子，
也会有一些麸皮；
所以千万不要看不起人，
只因他偶然玩点把戏。
所罗门——《传道书》第七章第十六节
Ⅰ
呵，你们这些好人，
个个都高尚虔诚，
无事可干，除了细心寻找
街坊们的过失和毛病。
你们的生活像磨房的石盘，
有足够的水力如意运转，
料斗里麦子加满又磨掉，
随着拍板不断地往返。
Ⅱ
听我说，年高德劭的诸公，
我乃凡夫俗子的律师，
他们同严肃的智慧不打交道，
只奔轻佻的愚蠢之门，
他们不长心眼，随随便便，
玩倒霉的小把戏，犯可怕的大错误，
还有各种毛病和失策，
都由我在这里替他们辩护。
Ⅲ
你们把他们的情况一对照，
就对两者的差别大摇其头，
但如能平心静气地想一想，
究竟什么使大人物不同凡流？
如果不算碰运气得到的，
你们自傲的那点纯洁，
只有你们善于掩盖的本领
才超过别人的一切。
Ⅳ
想想你们虽把七情六欲压住，
也不免常有放纵，
那些不受拘束的人
又怎能熬得住欲念沸腾！
你们的船顺风又顺流，
当然平稳快当，直放大海，
但如果顶风逆流向上走，
准会行驶得七斜八歪。
Ⅴ
看社交和娱乐两位先生
坐在一起，高兴无忧，
不料过一会就转变气质，
成为淫荡和贪杯之流。
呵，愿他们能估量一下
造成了什么永恒的后果，
或者说说更可怕的下场，
在地狱里花大钱赌博！
Ⅵ
你们这些讲道德的高贵女士，
衣服紧扣，道貌岸然，
且慢把可怜的失足者责骂，
先来设身处地，把她扮演:
来了心爱的人，碰上方便的机会，
按捺不住，起了邪心——
不过，让我低声附耳说一句，
也许你们挑不起这等感情。
Ⅶ
所以要和气对待你们的兄弟，
更要体贴你们的姊妹，
纵然他们做了一丁点错事，
凡是人都不免偶尔走斜。
有一点至今难以弄明，
是什么激情使他们失误，
也难真正地看清，
他们后悔到什么地步。
Ⅷ
只有制作我们的心的上帝，
才能最有力地考验我们：
他知道每根心弦能发多少音，
每条血管能载多少情。
那么在天平之前让我们住口，
因为我们无法把它摆平，
也许算得出人家干了什么，
却不知顶住没干的事情。
Holy Willie's Prayer
"And send the godly in a pet to pray." —Pope.
ARGUMENT.—Holy Willie was a rather oldish bachelor elder, in the parish of Mauchline, and much and justly famed for that polemical chattering, which ends in tippling orthodoxy, and for that spiritualized bawdry which refines to liquorish devotion. In a sessional process with a gentleman in Mauchline—a Mr. Gavin Hamilton—Holy Willie and his priest, Father Auld, after full hearing in the presbytery of Ayr, came off but second best; owing partly to the oratorical powers of Mr. Robert Aiken, Mr. Hamilton’s counsel; but chiefly to Mr. Hamilton’s being one of the most irreproachable and truly respectable characters in the county. On losing the process, the muse overheard him (Holy Willie) at his devotions, as follows:—
O Thou, who in the heavens does dwell,
Who, as it pleases best Thysel',
Sends ane to heaven an' ten to hell,
A' for Thy glory,
And no for ony gude or ill
They've done afore Thee!
I bless and praise Thy matchless might,
When thousands Thou hast left in night,
That I am here afore Thy sight,
For gifts an' grace
A burning and a shining light
To a' this place.
What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic exaltation,
I wha deserve most just damnation
For broken laws,
Five thousand years ere my creation,
Thro' Adam's cause?
When frae my mither's womb I fell,
Thou might hae plunged me in hell,
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,
In burnin lakes,
Where damnèd devils roar and yell,
Chain'd to their stakes.
Yet I am here a chosen sample,
To show Thy grace is great and ample;
I'm here a pillar o' Thy temple,
Strong as a rock,
A guide, a buckler, and example,
To a' Thy flock.
But yet, O L—d! confess I must,
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust:
An' sometimes, too, in warldly trust,
Vile self gets in:
But Thou remembers we are dust,
Defil'd wi' sin.
O L—d! yestreen, Thou kens, wi' Meg—
Thy pardon I sincerely beg,
O! may't ne'er be a living plague
To my dishonour,
An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg
Again upon her.
Besides, I farther maun avow,
Wi' Leezie's lass, three times I trow—
But L—d, that Friday I was fou,
When I cam near her;
Or else, Thou kens, Thy servant true
Wad never steer her.
Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thorn
Buffet Thy servant e'en and morn,
Lest he owre proud and high shou'd turn,
That he's sae gifted:
If sae, Thy han' maun e'en be borne,
Until Thou lift it.
L—d, bless Thy chosen in this place,
For here Thou has a chosen race:
But G—d confound their stubborn face,
An' blast their name,
Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace
An' public shame.
L—d, mind Gaw'n Hamilton's deserts;
He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes,
Yet has sae mony takin arts,
Wi' great and sma',
Frae G—d's ain priest the people's hearts
He steals awa.
An' when we chasten'd him therefor,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
An' set the warld in a roar
O' laughing at us;—
Curse Thou his basket and his store,
Kail an' potatoes.
L—d, hear my earnest cry and pray'r,
Against that Presbyt'ry o' Ayr;
Thy strong right hand, L—d, mak it bare
Upo' their heads;
L—d visit them, an' dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.
O L—d, my G—d! that glib-tongu'd Aiken,
My vera heart and flesh are quakin,
To think how we stood sweatin', shakin,
An' p—'d wi' dread,
While he, wi' hingin lip an' snakin,
Held up his head.
L—d, in Thy day o' vengeance try him,
L—d, visit him wha did employ him,
And pass not in Thy mercy by ´em,
Nor hear their pray'r,
But for Thy people's sake, destroy 'em,
An' dinna spare.
But, L—d, remember me an' mine
Wi' mercies temp'ral an' divine,
That I for grace an' gear may shine,
Excell'd by nane,
And a' the glory shall be thine,
Amen, Amen!
威利长老的祷词
使敬神者一怒之下而去祷告。 ——蒲伯
内容概要 威利是摩希林地方教堂的长老，一个上了年纪的单身汉，喜与人争，喋喋不休，以此出名，终成正统，然贪杯如故；又以好色著，虽经净化，貌似虔诚，实仍多欲。曾与当地绅士盖文·汉弥登先生发生争执，向该地长老大会控告，大会听了他及支持他的峨特教士的全部陈述后，认为罪状不能成立。所以如此，原因部分在于汉弥登有律师罗伯特·艾肯能言善辩，主要则由于汉弥登本人为人正直，在当地极受尊敬之故。威利败诉后，诗神偶过其家，听他正在祈祷，祷词如下：
主呵，我主坐镇在天上，
凡事随心所欲，
叫一人上天堂，十人下地狱，
都只为主的荣光，
与他们自身无关：作恶，行善，
全不相干。
我赞美主的威力无边！
主将千万人丢在黑暗的深渊，
唯独我在主的面前，
受主的恩典。
论才干和品德，谁都承认
我是此地的明灯！
我何幸，我的一代又何幸，
居然获得这特殊的恩宠？
我本来只配永世沉沦，
因亚当罪孽深重！
六千年前他犯了天条，
我生前就有罪难逃！
自从我走出娘胎，
打入地狱本应该，
您本可将我丢进火焰海，
烧得我苦苦叫哀。
铁柱上锁住了永不超生的鬼，
哭号声叫人心摧！
但我却活在人间，还以贤德中选，
显示天主的恩泽无边。
我站在这里，作教堂的支柱，
比岩石还坚。
我是您子民的护卫和榜样，
并把他们导引如牛羊。
可是主呵，我又必须承认——
好些时，春意浓，心痒难受，
也曾经，见钱眼开，孽根不净，
恶性又冒头！
不过主呵，您记得我们本是尘世身，
从头起便是罪恶人。
昨夜晚，主知道，我同美琪相聚——
呵，我惶恐，求主宽恕！
但愿没闯大祸，不至于
毁了一生名誉！
我决不让无法无天的风流腿
再上她的小床去捣鬼。
除此外，还有一事要招：
莉西的女儿也来过——大约三遭。
不过，主呵，那一晚碰上她，
我早已黄汤灌饱。
不是酒，您的忠仆哪会出丑，
更不会将她引诱。
也许主故意叫淫欲生刺，
刺得您奴仆日夜烦恼，
免得他趾高气扬太骄傲，
自以为天生才高？
如果这样，多少刺我也将忍受，
直到您高抬贵手。
愿主赐福本地的教徒，
他们是您特选的子民。
但是，主呵，诅咒那倔强的一群，
让他们把脸面丢尽！
他们曾使您的管事们蒙羞，
而且当众出丑。
主呵，请给汉弥登应受的惩罚！
他骂街、打牌，又喝酒，
到处笼络，不论年长年幼，
小恩小惠有一手！
这样就从主的牧师手上，
把人心完全偷光。
为此我们要加以管教，
不料惹起一场大纠纷，
他一声喊，引来一群闲人，
个个都嘲笑我们。
主呵，咒诅他的篮筐和伙房，
让他的白菜、土豆烂光。
主呵，我迫切向您呼吁祈求：
一定要惩治艾尔城全体老教友！
主呵，高举您山岳似的右手，
猛敲他们的秃头！
请主严厉对待，决不容情，
处罚他们的罪行！
还有，主呵，那油嘴滑舌的艾肯！
想起他我至今胆战心惊，
那一天他骂得我黄汗像雨淋，
一害怕小便又失禁。
老峨特也张口结舌往外溜，
双手抱住了头！
主呵，只等审判的日子一来到，
惩罚了他，还要重办他的雇主，
对他们决不要踌躇，
也不要听他们诉苦。
为了子民之故快将他们处死，
不能有半点仁慈！
但是主呵，请记住我和我的一家，
赐我天上地下的一切鸿运，
让我有福有财无比光彩，
荣华超过任何人！
一切荣耀归我主，
阿门！阿门！
To a Louse
Ha! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie?
Your impudence protects you sairly;
I canna say but ye strunt rarely,
Owre gauze and lace;
Tho', faith! I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner,
How daur ye set your fit upon her—
Sae fine a lady?
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner
On some poor body.
Swith! in some beggar's hauffet squattle;
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Whaur horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle
Your thick plantations.
Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rels, snug and tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right,
Till ye've got on it—
The vera tapmost, tow'rin height
O' Miss' bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump an' grey as ony groset:
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,
I'd gie ye sic a hearty dose o't,
Wad dress your droddum.
I wad na been surpris'd to spy
You on an auld wife's flainen toy;
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On's wyliecoat;
But Miss' fine Lunardi! fye!
How daur ye do't?
O Jeany, dinna toss your head,
An' set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie's makin:
Thae winks an' finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin.
O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
一个贵人！
走，到别处去寻吃的，
找一个穷人。
快，那儿有一个乞丐头发蓬松，
你可以去爬，钻，玩弄，
还有别的蹦跳的小虫，
正好结成一帮。
反正梳子的牙齿不会来碰
你们深藏的地方。
喂，你且别动！现在你避开人眼，
躲在帽带下边，舒服安全，
可是，天！你却定要爬过帽沿，
奔向峰顶，
直到高踞在小姐的帽尖，
否则死不甘心！
瞧！你居然敢把鼻子伸出来，
又黑又肥，像一粒大黑莓。
啊，如果我有水银、松香之类，
或者什么毒膏，
正好给你满满开一味，
叫你的屁股吃饱！
要是你出现在老太婆的破帽，
那不会出我意料，
躺在穷小子的背心里逍遥，
也不会叫我惊奇。
可是小姐新买的意大利帽，
那不是你撒野之地！
啊，珍尼，请不要摇头晃脑，
卖弄你的青春美貌，
你哪知这坏蛋已经爬高，
速度无比！
我怕你那挤眉弄眼的一套，
只会叫人把它注意。
啊，但愿上天给我们一种本领，
能像别人那样把自己看清！
那就会免去许多蠢事情，
也不会胡思乱猜，
什么装饰和姿势会抬高身份，
甚至受到膜拜！
Poor Mailie's Elegy
Lament in rhyme, lament in prose,
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose;
Our bardie's fate is at a close,
Past a' remead!
The last, sad cape-stane o' his woes;
Poor Mailie's dead!
It's no the loss o' warl's gear,
That could sae bitter draw the tear,
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear
The mourning weed:
He's lost a friend an' neebor dear
In Mailie dead.
Thro' a' the town she trotted by him;
A lang half-mile she could descry him;
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him,
She ran wi' speed:
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him,
Than Mailie dead.
I wat she was a sheep o' sense,
An' could behave hersel' wi' mense:
I'll say't, she never brak a fence,
Thro' thievish greed.
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence
Sin' Mailie's dead.
Or, if he wanders up the howe,
Her living image in her yowe
Comes bleating till him, owre the knowe,
For bits o' bread;
An' down the briny pearls rowe
For Mailie dead.
She was nae get o' moorland tips,
Wi' tauted ket, an' hairy hips;
For her forbears were brought in ships,
Frae 'yont the Tweed.
A bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips
Than Mailie's dead.
Wae worth the man wha first did shape
That vile, wanchancie thing—a raip!
It maks guid fellows girn an' gape,
Wi' chokin dread;
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape
For Mailie dead.
O, a' ye bards on bonie Doon!
An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune!
Come, join the melancholious croon
O' Robin's reed!
His heart will never get aboon—
想避免，全无效！
遭了最大的悲痛， ．
可怜的梅莉死了！
不是由于丢了财富，
才引起这样的愁苦，
使得诗人穿上丧服，
忍不住哀号，
而是失去了朋友和帮助，
由于梅莉死了！
梅莉曾陪他走遍全城，
一里之外就能把他辨认，
见了就亲热地叫一声，
立刻朝他直跑，
哪里去找这样忠实的友人，
如今梅莉死了。
我知道梅莉是懂事的母羊，
举止落落大方，
她从未因为贪婪，
钻过人家篱笆。
诗人只好独坐把门关，
自从梅莉死了。
他也曾漫步上山，
却遇到“咩咩”叫着的小羊，
一看原是梅莉所产，
跑来要点面包。
他禁不住泪洒衣衫，
为的梅莉死了。
梅莉可不是荒地野种之后，
毛粗又加身丑，
它祖先是曲维河对岸的牲口，
拿船接运来到。
再也剪不到羊毛这样轻柔，
如今梅莉死了。
诅咒那第一个起恶心的人
想出了那该死的长绳！
好心人看了都气愤，
还怕被它绊倒！
罗平的帽上挂着黑纱巾，
因为梅莉死了。
啊，杜河两岸的诗人，
你们在艾尔把风笛调正，
请来配合罗平的芦笛声，
一齐奏出哀调！
他的心从此冰冷，
他的梅莉死了！
To a Mouse
On turning her up in her nest with the plough,
November, 1785
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell—
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
一味向前乱闯！
我哪会忍心拖着凶恶的铁犁
在后紧紧追你！
我真抱憾人这个霸道的东西，
破坏了自然界彼此的友谊，
于是得了一个恶名，
连我也叫你吃惊。
可是我呵，你可怜的友伴，土生土长，
同是生物本一样！
我知道你有时不免偷窃，
但那又算什么？你也得活着呼吸！
一串麦穗里捡几颗，
这点要求不苛。
剩下的已够我称心，
不在乎你那一份。
可怜你那小小的房屋被摧毁，
破墙哪经得大风来回地吹！
要盖新居没材料，
连荒草也难找！
眼看十二月的严冬就逼近，
如刀的北风刮得紧！
你早见寂寞的田野已荒芜，
快到的冬天漫长又艰苦，
本指望靠这块避风地，
舒舒服服过一季。
没想到那残忍的犁头一声响，
就叫你家园全遭殃！
这小小一堆树叶和枯枝，
费了你多少疲倦的日子！
如今你辛苦的经营全落空，
赶出了安乐洞！
无家无粮，就凭孤身去抵挡
漫天风雪，遍地冰霜！
但是鼠呵，失望不只是你的命运，
人的远见也一样成泡影！
人也罢，鼠也罢，最如意的安排
也不免常出意外！
只剩下痛苦和悲伤，
代替了快乐的希望。
比起我，你还大值庆幸，
你的烦恼只在如今。
我呢，唉，向后看
一片黑暗；
向前看，说不出究竟，
猜一下，也叫人寒心！
The Auld Farmer's New-Year-Morning Salutation to His Auld Mare, Maggie
On giving her the accustomed ripp of corn to hansel in the New Year.
A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie!
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie:
Tho' thou's howe-backit now, an' knaggie,
I've seen the day
Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie,
Out-owre the lay.
Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy,
An' thy auld hide as white's a daisie,
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek an' glaizie,
A bonie gray:
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee,
Ance in a day.
Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,
A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank;
An' set weel down a shapely shank,
As e'er tread yird;
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank,
Like ony bird.
It's now some nine-an'-twenty year,
Sin' thou was my guid-father's mear;
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear,
An' fifty mark;
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear,
An' thou was stark.
When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
Ye then was trotting wi' your minnie:
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie,
Ye ne'er was donsie;
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie,
An' unco sonsie.
That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride,
When ye bure hame my bonie bride:
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride,
Wi' maiden air!
Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide
For sic a pair.
Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,
An' wintle like a saumont coble,
That day, ye was a jinker noble,
For heels an' win'!
An' ran them till they a' did wauble,
Far, far behin'!
When thou an' I were young an' skeigh,
An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,
How thou wad prance, and snore, an' skreigh
An' tak the road!
Town's-bodies ran, an' stood abeigh,
An' ca't thee mad.
When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow,
We took the road aye like a swallow:
At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,
For pith an' speed;
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow
Whare'er thou gaed.
The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch mile, thou try't their mettle,
An' gar't them whaizle:
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
O' saugh or hazel.
Thou was a noble fittie-lan',
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours' gaun,
In guid March-weather,
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han',
For days thegither.
Thou never braing't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit;
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,
Wi' pith an' power;
Till sprittie knowes wad rair't an' riskit
An' slypet owre.
When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep,
An' threaten'd labour back to keep,
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap
Aboon the timmer:
I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep,
For that, or simmer.
In cart or car thou never reestit;
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it;
Thou never lap, an' sten't, and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;
But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov't awa.
My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a',
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;
Forbye sax mae I've sell't awa,
That thou hast nurst:
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa,
The vera warst.
Mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,
An' wi' the weary warl' fought!
An' mony an anxious day, I thought
We wad be beat!
Yet here to crazy age we're brought,
Wi' something yet.
An' think na', my auld trusty servan',
That now perhaps thou's less deservin,
An' thy auld days may end in starvin;
For my last fow,
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane
Laid by for you.
We've worn to crazy years thegither;
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither;
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether
To some hain'd rig,
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,
Wi' sma' fatigue.
老农向母马麦琪贺年
附赠礼品麦子一把
恭贺新禧，麦琪，
请收下这点麦子喂肚皮！
你如今虽然骨瘦腿疲，
但我见过你从前
跑起来能同小雄马相比，
草场上一骑当先。
现在你精神萎靡，动作僵硬，
身上的毛也白得像草根，
我可见过你膘肥身灵，
灰色的斑纹闪亮光！
那时候逗你得分外机警，
哪怕只试一趟。
你原是众马之首，
高大，强壮，活溜，
没有更敏捷的小腿踏上地头，
像你当年！
那时你一跳就越过溪流，
身轻似燕。
说来已过了二十九个年头，
自从你离开我的岳丈老头，
他把你算在女儿的嫁妆里头，
外加五十大洋。
虽然钱数不多，但你是好马，
鞍子也还像样。
当我第一次去看我的珍妮，
你还跟着你妈妈练蹄，
显得机灵又滑稽，
但从不捣乱，
而是善良，安静，好脾气，
特别好管。
那一天，你跑得格外高兴，
驮着我的新娘来临，
她文雅、大方地把你骑乘，
带着少女的娇羞。
我敢说凯尔全乡再也难寻
更美的一对朋友。
虽然你如今走路蹒跚，
颠簸像条打鲑鱼的破船，
那一天你可是勇往直前，
腿健又加气足。
把别的马都跑得浑身打颤，
落后认输！
当年你我一起年轻爱闹，
碰到集市的马食粗糙，
你就要又蹦又叫，
撇头向大路猛冲，
镇上人赶紧四散奔逃，
骂你发了马疯。
等你吃饱麦粒，我也喝足烧酒，
我们就飞驰大路，跑个顺溜！
婚礼后赛马你没有对手，
不论比气力或速度。
别的马都抛在后头，
只要你肯起步。
那些屁股小小的猎马，
短程也许能把你比下，
但跟你跑六哩越野，
就会气急声嘶。
不用鞭打脚踢，只消一根树枒，
你就领会意思。
拉犁你也最肯出力，
四马之中你走在最里，
你和我常在三月天气，
连续八个钟头，
一次耕十亩田地，
一同把汗流。
你从不摇晃、猛刹或乱挣，
只把尾巴一甩动，
丰满的胸部向前挺，
使出全身力气，
就将小土包一下犁松，
翻过来只见湿泥。
当冰霜连天，雪积道阻，
气候要把种地人困住，
我往你槽里多添麦子一束，
把盆盛得满满，
我知道麦琪吃了不会睡糊涂，
老等天气变暖。
你拉车也是好样，
最陡的山坡也敢上；
从不前跳后仰，
停下又吐粗气；
只把脚步稍稍放长，
车子就跑得顺利。
现在拉犁的都是你的儿郎，
四匹大马仪表堂堂，
另有六匹母马送上市场，
都是你所养抚，
它们卖了三十二块银洋，
还算把它们低估。
多少次我俩同干苦活，
跟那疲惫的世界争夺！
多少个日子里我感到焦灼，
怕我们倒地不起；
没想到几十个春秋度过，
还能干它一气！
忠实的伙伴，你不要以为
如今老了就啥也不配，
说不定还有饿死之悲，
我保证直到最后，
存着满满的一斗麦穗，
供你享受。
我俩一起熬过了苦年头，
现在又一起摇晃着走，
我一定小心拉着你的绳扣，
去到一块好地，
让你在那里吃个足够，
而且不用费力。
The Twa Dogs
A Tale
'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,
That bears the name o' auld King Coil,
Upon a bonie day in June,
When wearin' thro' the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather'd ance upon a time.
The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar,
Was keepit for His Honor's pleasure:
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs;
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Whare sailors gang to fish for cod.
His lockèd, letter'd, braw brass collar
Shew'd him the gentleman an' scholar;
But though he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride, nae pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin,
Ev'n wi' al tinkler-gipsy's messin:
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie,
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him,
An' stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.
The tither was a ploughman's collie—
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him,
And in freak had Luath ca'd him,
After some dog in Highland Sang,
Was made lang syne, —Lord knows how lang.
He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face
Aye gat him friends in ilka place;
His breast was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gawsie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung owre his hurdie's wi' a swirl.
Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,
And unco pack an' thick thegither,
Wi' social nose whiles snuff'd an' snowkit;
Whiles mice an' moudieworts they howkit;
Whiles scour'd awa' in lang excursion,
An' worry'd ither in diversion;
Until wi' daffin' weary grown
Upon a knowe they set them down.
An' there began a lang digression.
About the ”lords o' the creation.”
Caesar
I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have;
An' when the gentry's life I saw,
What way poor bodies liv'd ava.
Our laird gets in his rackèd rents,
His coals, his kane, an' a' his stents:
He rises when he likes himsel';
His flunkies answer at the bell;
He ca's his coach; he ca's his horse;
He draws a bonie silken purse,
As lang's my tail, where, thro' the steeks,
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks.
Frae morn to e'en, it's nought but toiling
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;
An' tho' the gentry first are stechin,
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan
Wi' sauce, ragouts, an' sic like trashtrie,
That's little short o' downright wastrie.
Our whipper-in, wee, blasted wonner,
Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner,
Better than ony tenant-man
His Honor has in a' the lan':
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,
I own it's past my comprehension.
Luath
Trowth, Caesar, whiles they're fash't eneugh:
A cottar howkin in a sheugh,
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry, an' sic like;
Himsel', a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans,
An' nought but his han'-daurk, to keep
Them right an' tight in thack an' rape.
An' when they meet wi' sair disasters,
Like loss o' health or want o' masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
An' they maun starve o' cauld an' hunger:
But how it comes, I never kent yet,
They're maistly wonderfu' contented;
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.
Caesar
But then to see how ye're negleckit,
How huff'd, an' cuff'd, an' disrespeckit!
L—d man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor folk,
As I wad by a stinkin brock.
I've notic'd, on our laird's court-day,—
An' mony a time my heart's been wae,—
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash,
How they maun thole a factor's snash;
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear;
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble,
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble!
I see how folk live that hae riches;
But surely poor-folk maun be wretches!
Luath
They're no sae wretched's ane wad think.
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink,
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight,
The view o't gives them little fright.
Then chance and fortune are sae guided,
They're aye in less or mair provided:
An' tho' fatigued wi' close employment,
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o' their lives,
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives;
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a' their fire-side.
An' whiles twalpennie worth o' nappy
Can mak the bodies unco happy:
They lay aside their private cares,
To mind the Kirk and State affairs;
They'll talk o' patronage an' priests,
Wi' kindling fury i' their breasts,
Or tell what new taxation's comin,
An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.
As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns,
They get the jovial, rantin kirns,
When rural life, of ev'ry station,
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.
That merry day the year begins,
They bar the door on frosty win's;
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill,
Are handed round wi' right guid will;
The cantie auld folks crackin crouse,
The young anes rantin thro' the house—
My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.
Still it's owre true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now owre aften play'd;
There's mony a creditable stock
O' decent, honest, fawsont folk,
Are riven out baith root an' branch,
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favour wi' some gentle master,
Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin,
For Britain's guid his saul indentin—
Caesar
Haith, lad, ye little ken about it:
For Britain's guid! guid faith! I doubt it.
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him:
An' saying ay or no's they bid him:
At operas an' plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading:
Or maybe, in a frolic daft,
To Hague or Calais takes a waft,
To mak a tour an' tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton, an' see the worl'.
There, at Vienna, or Versailles,
He rives his father's auld entails;
Or by Madrid he takes the rout,
To thrum guitars an' fecht wi' nowt;
Or down Italian vista startles,
Wh-re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles:
Then bowses drumlie German-water,
To mak himsel look fair an' fatter,
An' clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
For Britain's guid! for her destruction!
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction.
Luath
Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate
They waste sae mony a braw estate!
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd
For gear to gang that gate at last?
O would they stay aback frae courts,
An' please themsels wi' country sports,
It wad for ev'ry ane be better,
The laird, the tenant, an' the cotter!
For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies,
Feint haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows;
Except for breakin o' their timmer,
Or speakin lightly o' their limmer,
Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock,
The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk.
But will ye tell me, Master Caesar:
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure?
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them,
The very thought o't need na fear them.
Caesar
L—d, man, were ye but whiles whare I am,
The gentles, ye wad ne'er envy them!
It's true, they need na starve or sweat,
Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat:
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes,
An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes:
But human bodies are sic fools,
For a' their colleges an' schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themsel's to vex them;
An' aye the less they hae to sturt them,
In like proportion, less will hurt them.
A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acre's till'd, he's right eneugh;
A country girl at her wheel,
Her dizzen's dune, she's unco weel;
But gentlemen, an' ladies warst,
Wi' ev'n-down want o' wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank an' lazy;
Tho' deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy;
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless;
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless.
An' ev'n their sports, their balls an' races,
Their galloping through public places,
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party-matches,
Then sowther a' in deep debauches.
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring,
Niest day their life is past enduring.
The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great an' gracious a' as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,
They're a' run-deils an' jads thegither.
Whiles, owre the wee bit cup an' platie,
They sip the scandal-potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,
An' cheat like ony unhanged blackguard.
There's some exceptions, man an' woman;
But this is gentry's life in common.
By this, the sun was out of sight,
An' darker gloamin brought the night;
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone;
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan;
When up they gat an' shook their lugs,
Rejoic'd they werena men but dogs;
An' each took aff his several way,
Resolv'd to meet some ither day.
两只狗
一个故事
故事发生在苏格兰的一个岛上，
名叫古老王城的地方，
在一个晴朗的六月天，
下午沉闷得昏昏欲眠，
两条狗在家闷得发慌，
就出门会合，一同游荡。
第一条狗名叫凯撒大有来头，
他是老爷太太心疼的爱狗，
一看他的毛发、身材、耳朵、嘴巴，
就知道苏格兰不是他的老家，
他来自海外的遥远地方，
水手们去打鱼把他看上。
他颈上挂有铜圈刻着金字，
表明他是狗中的学者和绅士，
但是他虽门第甚高，
魔鬼也会因此得意，他可毫不自傲，
常常同穷人的杂种狗厮混，
花上大半天追逐、舐吻，
不论在市场、磨房、铁铺或教堂，
不论对方是怎样癞皮卷毛又肮脏，
他都一见就心花怒放，
结了伴随地撒尿，处处闲逛。
另一条是庄稼汉的看家狗，
庄稼汉爱胡说八道，爱吟诗饮酒，
他把这条狗看成朋友和伙伴，
把狗取名乐斯是为了一时喜欢，
他记得高原古歌里有狗也叫此名，
那歌儿年代多久，上帝也难弄清。
乐斯是一条聪明忠心的好狗，
跳墙越沟，本领难求！
他的白毛脸显得又快活又诚实，
到处都赢得无数新的相识；
他胸前雪白，背上一层厚毛，
乌黑发亮，好一件漂亮长袍！
还有那尾巴摇得高兴，
翘起来，弯一下，真是带劲。
不消说这两条狗是相好的知己，
见了面亲亲密密，谈得投机，
先用鼻子交际一番，彼此闻了又吻，
再来相帮挖地，逼得老鼠逃遁，
接着在山上大跑一气，
一路上打闹逗乐，笑笑嘻嘻，
最后种种的花样都已玩腻，
两狗才夹了尾巴屁股着地，
坐下来闲话家常，
谈一谈“创世主的得意儿郎”。
凯 撒
诚实的乐斯，我常常想问
你们穷家狗怎样把日子来混；
绅士们的生活我倒清楚，
就不知穷哥们怎样把岁月来度。
我们老爷逼来血泪斑斑的租金，
还有煤、粮和其它种种钱货收进。
日上三竿才起身，铃儿一响群奴应，
他叫一声来了车，努努嘴来了马，
他又拿出一个真丝的钱袋，
这钱袋长如我尾，口上半开，
里面拥挤着的东西探头探脑——
原来是黄澄澄带花纹的财宝。
从早到晚，厨房里辛辛苦苦：
烤的烤、炒的炒、煎的煎、煮的煮，
都只为绅士们的口腹之好；
接着仆人们也来把肚子塞饱，
装下了肉汤、菜羹和小吃种种，
真是浪费得叫人心痛。
管打猎的听差是个最无用的小东西，
吃起饭来可十分神气，
一顿夜餐所花的钱，
佃户家要过多少天！
穷哥们究竟拿什么来填肚，
我可完全没法儿猜度。
乐 斯
凯撒，他们的情形真是困难，
有时候泡在水里去挖河岸，
有时候浑身臭泥去修长堤，
或者搬运石块，弄得力尽筋疲——
就这样养活他自己和他老婆，
还有大小儿女一大窝，
一切全仗他一双大手，
好容易使全家踏踏实实，穿暖吃够。
一等他们遇到重大的不幸，
给人退了佃或者生场病，
那光景的凄惨可以预料，
一拖久就要又冻又饿，死路一条！
但是我却不懂是怎么一回事，
他们大多是欢欢喜喜的一家子，
虽然生活是这样的艰苦，
可养出了结实的小子和伶俐的闺女。
凯 撒
可是瞧一下你们怎样受人白眼，
怎样给人又打又骂，有苦难言！
天呀，老爷们才不关心
这些掘土挖沟的畜生，
遇着了啐一口抬头走过，
就像我碰着路旁的蜗牛、田螺。
每逢我们老爷坐堂收租，
我把可怜的佃户们看个清楚
（但每次看了都叫我悲伤）。
他们身无分文，却逃不过我们的账房，
他顿脚，他威胁，他臭骂，
抓了人，还要将他们的衣服剥下。
佃户们低头站着，恭恭敬敬，
还得忍耐听完，胆战心惊！
阔人们日子过得真舒泰，
穷人们活得比鬼还要坏！
乐 斯
他们虽然活在穷困的边上，
却不像人们所想的懊丧；
穷困的景象他们已经见惯，
来了并不叫他们悲叹。
时运和机缘总会转换，
他们好坏也有吃有穿，
虽然长久的劳作使他们疲惫，
甜美的是偷闲小睡。
他们把一生中最大的安慰
寄托于忠实的妻子和成长的儿辈。
最大的骄傲是学话的儿童，
他们的笑声使炉火也格外欢腾。
只消两个铜子的烧酒，
穷人们就喝得快乐无忧。
他们放下了私人的事情，
来把教会和国家的大政关心。
一谈到牧师的行为和贵人的恩宠，
他们的怒火就立时上冲；
或者互相传告着快有哪种新税，
猜不透伦敦的大老们又捣什么鬼。
冰冷脸孔的万圣节一来到，
他们就欢庆丰收十分热闹。
农村的居民不论贫富长幼，
都聚在一起，玩乐嬉游。
爱神频送秋波，才子口若悬河，
忘了世上还有忧愁和灾祸。
等到新春快乐元旦到，
他们就顶着冷风把门窗关好。
烧酒掺奶热腾腾，
温暖了所有的良朋；
瓶装的鼻烟和喷香的烟斗，
殷勤相敬手递手。
青年人走着放言高论，
老年人坐着清谈浅斟，
这欢乐的光景叫我也情不自禁，
高吠了几声表示我的欢欣。
不过你的话更有道理，
有些人就是爱玩鬼把戏。
许多诚实可靠的老好人
忽然一旦倒了运，
连根带叶给拔走，
都只因某个骄横的狗头，
为了满足他的贪心，
想同地主拉得更紧。
那地主也许正忙于当议员去京城，
为了不列颠的利益出卖了灵魂。
凯 撒
不，不，朋友，你哪知底细！
为了不列颠的利益！这话我可怀疑！
不如说，让首相们牵着鼻子走，
赞成或反对，都只凭别人提个头；
歌剧院里露个脸，装个样，
吃喝嫖赌，押了地皮还卖家当，
说不定一时兴起装风雅，
飘然而去加莱与海牙，
游历一转，胡闹一番，
学习一点新鲜，见识一下世面。
到了维也纳和凡尔赛，
把他老爹的心肝肚肺都出卖，
然后扬长而去马德里，
弹了吉他又成斗牛迷，
接着奔向意大利，
石榴花下大嫖妓，
最后出现在德国混浊的温泉，
要将自己泡成个小白脸，
也治一身花柳病，
威尼斯美女送的好人情。
为了不列颠的利益！不如说为了不列颠的灭亡！
由于派别之争，家族之仇，声色犬马之荒唐！
乐 斯
啊呀，老兄，亲爱的老爷们，
原来偌大的家业就是这样断送！
难道我们辛辛苦苦，摸黑起早，
挣来的钱就只让他们白白花掉？
呵，盼只盼他们能离开京城，
安居在乡下拿打猎跳舞来排遣闲情，
这样会对每个人都有好处，
不论是大地主、小佃户或者穷老粗。
再说老爷们虽然乱闯乱嚷，百无禁忌，
他们可谁也不真是心怀恶意，
只不过有时破坏一点树林，
有时骂几句他们的夫人，
有时开枪打死几只野兔和山禽，
但是对穷人并无半点不良之心。
凯撒少爷，你能否告诉我，
有权有势的人怎样快活地把日子消磨？
他们一不怕饿、二不怕冻，
任何恐惧也不在他们眼中。
凯 撒
天哪，只要老兄到我处住几天，
你就不会对绅士们还有半点艳羡。
不错，他们不会挨饿，不必流汗，
不怕夏天的闷热，冬天的酷寒；
不用损筋伤骨去干苦活，
到头来弄得满身病痛，天天吃药。
但是人类虽有大学、中学一大把，
实际都是可笑的大傻瓜。
一看没有真正的忧愁，
就为烦恼自己硬找理由，
其实如果不自寻烦恼，
烦恼也就一天天减少。
一个种地的庄稼汉
种完了一亩地也就理得心安；
一个织布的乡下姑娘
织完了一丈布也就睡得甜香。
可怜的是那些老爷太太，
闲着无事反而万般无奈，
游来荡去，打了呵欠又伸懒腰，
毛病一点没有，心情实在糟糕，
白天索然寡味，晚上没精打采，
躺在床上不断地翻转去又滚过来。
他们纵然打猎、赛马和跳舞，
在众人面前驰马上大路，
别看那热闹、神气和打扮，
他们的心里可没有半点喜欢。
男人们分成狐群狗党，
对骂了一通又同灌黄汤。
到晚上他们狂饮再加乱嫖，
第二天生趣毫无，只想上吊！
太太们手牵手成群结队，
既亲热，又温文，称姐道妹，
可是听她们彼此在背后刻薄，
就知男盗女娼真是一丘之貉！
到下午她们把精美的点心来吃，
手捧小小的茶杯，笑话别人的隐私；
到了漫长的夜晚她们又紧皱眉头，
专心一意把纸牌来斗，
押下宝去，输掉了农民的整座谷仓，
偷起牌来，活是个无法无天的流氓。
老弟，当然也有个别的例外，
但总的说来，这就是所谓的老爷太太。
话到这里太阳已经西沉
夜晚带来了幢幢黑影，
甲虫懒洋洋地拖长叫声，
耕牛立在田野里低头沉吟。
这时两只狗起身摇摇耳朵，
他们庆幸是狗而非人，
就这样珍重道别分了手，
相约几天后再来碰头。
The Cotter's Saturday Night
Inscribed to R. Aiken, Esq.,
"Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the Poor."
Gray.
1
My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene,
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways,
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there I ween!
2
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;
The short'ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose:
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,—
This night his weekly moil is at an end,
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.
3
At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
To meet their dead, wi' flichterin noise and glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,
His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile,
His lisping infant, prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.
4
Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,
At service out, amang the farmers roun';
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
A cannie errand to a neibor town:
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown,
In youthfu' bloom—love sparkling in her e'e—
Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown,
Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.
5
With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet,
And each for other's weelfare kindly speirs:
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet:
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view;
The mother, wi' her needle and her shears,
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.
6
Their master's and their mistress' command,
The younkers a' are warned to obey;
And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand,
And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play;
"And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway,
And mind your duty, duly, morn and night;
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,
Implore His counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright."
7
But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,
Tells how a neibor lad came o'er the moor,
To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek;
With heart-struck anxious care, enquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;
Weel-pleased the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake.
8
Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben;
A strappin youth, he takes the mother's eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en;
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,
But blate an' laithfu', scarce can weel behave;
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave,
Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.
9
O happy love! where love like this is found:
O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
I've pacèd much this weary, mortal round,
And sage experience bids me this declare,—
"If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare—
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair
In other's arms, breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale."
10
Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling smooth!
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd?
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,
Points to the parents fondling o'er their child?
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild?
11
But now the supper crowns their simple board,
The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's food;
The sowp their only hawkie does afford,
That, 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood:
The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell;
And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid:
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell
How t'was a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.
12
The chearfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace,
The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride:
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And "Let us worship God!” he says with solemn air.
13
They chant their artless notes in simple guise,
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise;
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name;
Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame;
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.
14
The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or Jo b's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.
15
Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay His head:
How His first followers and servants sped;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command.
16
Then, kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,"*
That thus they all shall meet in future days,
There, ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere
17
Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method, and of art;
When men display to congregations wide
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart!
The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
But haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well-pleas'd, the language of the soul;
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.
18
Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest:
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide;
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.
19
From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs,
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad:
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
"An honest man's the noblest work of God;"
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind;
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of Hell, in wickedness refin'd!
20
O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent,
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
And O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile!
Then howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd isle.
21
O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide,
That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart,
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second glorious part:
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
O never, never Scotia's realm desert;
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!
* Pope’s “Windsor Forest.”
佃农的星期六晚
——献给R. 艾肯先生
雄心休笑他们有益的劳动，
土气的欢乐，卑微的身世；
伟人也无须带着冷嘲
来听穷人们的短短家史。
——格雷
1
我的亲爱的、尊敬的朋友，
这不是诗人为求赏而捧场，
自尊使我鄙视自私的追求，
我只望能得好友的重视和夸奖。
为你我吟唱简单的苏格兰诗句，
表一表乡下人家的情景：
强烈的乡土爱，无邪的风俗图；
艾肯呀，你如生在茅屋也难免这等处境，
天才会埋没，却远比现在开心！
2
十一月冷风猛吹，声如呜咽，
冬天的短促日子已近尾梢。
满身泥水的牲口卸了大犁，
几行乌鸦在飞向老巢，
困乏了的佃农也停止干活，
一周的劳动今晚告终，
他收拾好铁锹和大小锄头，
盼望明天能够休息放松，
拖着两腿通过野地，向家园移动。
3
他终于看见了那座孤立的茅屋，
在一棵老树的荫庇之下，
久等的孩子们争着来接，
对着爹爹又跳又叫，
壁炉虽小而火旺，炉前石板闪亮光，
勤俭的妻子笑脸相迎，
学话的小儿子爬到了他身上，
这时候他已毫无忧心，
忘了一整天的劳动和苦辛。
4
接着大孩子们也回了家，
他们在附近农庄帮工，
一个驾犁，一个看羊，一个打杂，
专跑小镇听使用，
大女儿珍尼已经长成俊姑娘，
青春娇艳，明眸闪着爱怜，
回家来把新买的裙子给父母瞧，
或者递上她辛苦挣来的工钱，
帮助困难的一家人度过穷年。
5
兄弟姐妹高高兴兴地团圆，
彼此问候近来的情形，
欢聚的时光不知不觉地飞逝，
各谈四处的奇怪见闻。
钟爱的父母看着儿女充满希望，
想想日后大有奔头，
妈妈手拿针线和剪刀，
把旧衣更新，细心整修，
爹爹不时插话，提出劝告和要求。
6
劝他们一定要听话，
将男女主人的吩咐全办到，
一定要勤快地干本身的活，
切不可嬉笑游戏，即使无人知道，
“还有，啊，一定要敬上帝，
早晚礼拜各一趟，
为了不至受诱惑而入歧途，
务求上帝的指引和相帮，
只要虔诚，上帝决不会不厚赏。”
7
听，有人轻轻在敲门，
珍尼闻声早知情，
就说来者是邻居的小伙子，
野地相遇，顺道把她送家门，
留心的妈妈看出了女儿眼闪光，
两颊泛红把头低。
她小心翼翼地把他的名字问，
珍尼好歹说出，怕个半死，
妈妈安心了，幸喜此人不是浪子。
8
珍尼叫声欢迎把门开，
进来的高大青年吸住了母亲眼睛，
女儿也开心，知道他此来没闯祸，
父亲谈起了马、犁、牲口种种，
小伙子也按捺不住心头欢喜，
只因害臊，手脚不知摆哪里，
母亲可心里有数，看得明白
他为什么又腼腆来又讲礼，
原来是她的闺女也有人家瞧得起。
9
美哉爱情！如此挚爱何处寻？
美哉幸福！几曾见这真正的狂欢！
我跋涉人生道上已多年，
饱经风霜，愿为诸君进一言：
“如果上帝有心让我们当神仙，
在人世的苦海里喝杯天上酒，
就让他叫一对老实诚挚的年轻人
彼此紧抱，互诉衷情意悠悠，
当晚风吹拂，在那雪白的梨树下头！”
10
有无披人皮的坏东西——
歹徒！恶棍！弃绝于爱情和真理，
居然敢处心积虑，用狡猾的圈套，
趁不防糟蹋天真的珍尼！
该死的鬼蜮伎俩！欺骗勾当！
难道廉耻、道德、良心全已失踪，
没有怜悯，没有仁慈，没有想到
父母把心爱的女儿看如命根？
难道就忍心看姑娘失身，双亲急疯！
11
好了，现在简单的晚饭搬上了桌子，
苏格兰的主食，那滋养的麦粥，
唯一的自养母牛供献了牛奶，
它就在板壁后面舒服地反刍；
主妇为了欢迎小伙子，表示庆贺，
特别拿出了她久藏的乳酪，
一再切给客人，客人也一再夸奖，
赢得主妇也话语滔滔，
说这酪跟亚麻同发，放了一年才尝！
12
愉快的晚餐完毕，他们严肃起来，
围着壁炉一圈坐定。
父亲用家长的庄重姿势，翻开
祖父珍爱的传代圣经，
然后恭敬地脱下帽子，
露出了白发越来越稀，
他从那些曾经响彻天堂的圣曲里
小心挑了一段歌词，
郑重宣布：“让我们向上帝敬礼！”
13
他们唱起简单的歌词，
可贵的是声音出自内心，
也许响起了邓第的慷慨悲歌，
也许震鸣着殉道的舍身精神，
也许艾尔金的冲天激情
谱写了苏格兰的圣曲高昂，
比起来意大利的颤音显得低沉，
耳朵虽受用，却无心灵的向往，
尽管颂上帝，但缺少融洽的热望。
14
父亲权充牧师，读出了圣经的一章，
关于亚伯拉罕是上帝之友的道理；
或者摩西号召永恒的战争，
对付亚玛力的野蛮后裔；
或者爱做诗的国王躺地呻吟，
由于受到上天的愤怒惩罚；
或者约伯的埋怨和呼号
或者以赛亚火辣辣的怒骂，
还有别的先知借神圣的竖琴发话。
15
也可能讲的是基督教的教义，
如何无辜者替罪孽人流了血，
如何那天上第二位的圣子
在世上无一处可以放头安睡；
如何他的圣徒到处流浪，
把他的圣教传播八方；
如何一位放逐到拔摩的先知，
看见太阳里站着大神堂堂，
降下了上帝旨意，要巴比伦灭亡。
16
接着跪下，面对永恒的天主，
圣徒、父亲、丈夫开始了他的祷告：
希望“雀跃而起，如生胜利之翼”，
但愿一家人今后总能团聚一道，
永远沐浴在上天的阳光里，
不再叹息，不再流痛苦的眼泪，
共同来唱诗歌颂创世主，
互相作伴，彼此更加亲爱，
听凭岁月随着永恒的圆轮翻飞。
17
相形之下，自傲的教会何等渺小！
纵有堂皇的仪式，人工的台阁，
对满堂的信徒装作百般虔诚，
可缺了向道的真心一颗！
神灵拂袖而去，空剩下一场盛典，
几支浮夸的颂歌，若干锦绣的圣衣！
倒是在远离嚣尘的茅屋里，
上帝喜听出自灵魂的言词，
于是把一家穷人列上了超生册子。
18
末了分散走上了回家的路，
农家子弟各自上床去安寝，
剩下父母还把最后的祷告做，
向着上帝热切地表衷情：
既然天力能叫鸟类归林各有栖，
能使百合开花春色娇，
一定也能远张智慧眼，
保他们一家大小都安好，
首先一条；人人心善行天道。
19
这种景况正是苏格兰的伟大所在，
使她国内有人爱，国外有人敬。
公侯不过仰帝王鼻息，
“好百姓才是上帝最高贵的成品”；
在登向天国的道德历程中，
茅屋比宫殿行进得快，
王侯的威势又何用？无非护住了
鬼蜮般的用心，无忌惮的厉害，
把人中败类的罪恶全遮盖！
20
呵，苏格兰，我亲爱的祖国！
为你我向上天提出最热烈的愿望，
愿你那勤劳坚毅的土地之子
永享健康，安定和称心如意的兴旺！
呵，还愿他们保持生活的纯朴，
不受奢风恶习的玷污！
怕什么王冠被夺，王位被砸，
只要有良善的人民起来卫护，
就有火的长城把心爱的岛国保住！
21
啊，上帝！是您使爱国的血潮
奔腾在伟人华莱士痛苦的心坎，
他敢于尊严地顶住暴君的威势，
又尊严地死，再树光荣的榜样。
（您是爱国者特有的上帝，他的朋友，
启示者，保护神，犒赏使！）
啊，千万不要把苏格兰的国土遗弃，
永远要培育爱国者战斗和写诗，
代代相传，为她增光，替她效死！
Epistle to J. Lapraik
An Old Scottish Bard. —April 1, 1785
While briers an' woodbines budding green,
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en,
An' morning poussie whiddin seen,
Inspire my muse,
This freedom, in an unknown frien',
I pray excuse.
On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin,
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin;
And there was muckle fun and jokin,
Ye need na doubt;
At length we had a hearty yokin
At sang about.
There was ae sang, amang the rest,
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best,
That some kind husband had addrest
To some sweet wife;
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast,
A' to the life.
I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel,
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel;
Thought I "Can this be Pope or Steele,
Or Beattie's wark?"
They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel
About Muirkirk.
It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't,
An' sae about him there I speir't;
Then a' that kent him round declar'd
He had ingine;
That nane excell'd it, few cam near't,
It was sae fine:
That, set him to a pint of ale,
An' either douce or merry tale,
Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel,
Or witty catches—
'Tween Inverness an' Teviotdale,
He had few matches.
Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith,
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an' graith,
Or die a cadger pownie's death,
At some dyke-back,
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith,
To hear your crack.
But, first an' foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,
I to the crambo-jingle fell;
Tho' rude an' rough—
Yet crooning to a body's sel'
Does weel eneugh.
I am nae poet, in a sense;
But just a rhymer like by chance,
An' hae to learning nae pretence;
Yet, what the matter?
Whene'er my muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.
Your critic-folk may cock their nose,
And say, ”How can you e'er propose,
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a sang?"
But, by your leaves, my learnèd foes,
Ye're maybe wrang.
What's a' your jargon o' your schools—
Your Latin names for horns an' stools?
If honest Nature made you fools,
What sairs your grammars?
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,
Or knappin-hammers.
A set o' dull, conceited hashes
Confuse their brains in college-classes!
They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o' Greek!
Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire,
That's a' the learning I desire;
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire
At pleugh or cart,
My muse, tho' hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.
O for a spunk o' Allan's glee,
Or Fergusson's, the bauld an' slee,
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be,
If I can hit it!
That would be lear eneugh for me,
If I could get it.
Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow,
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few;
Yet, if your catalogue be fu',
I'se no insist:
But, gif ye want ae friend that's true,
I'm on your list.
I winna blaw about mysel,
As ill I like my fauts to tell;
But friends, an' folks that wish me well,
They sometimes roose me;
Tho' I maun own, as mony still
As far abuse me.
There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,
I like the lasses—Gude forgie me!
For mony a plack they wheedle frae me
At dance or fair;
Maybe some ither thing they gie me,
They weel can spare.
But Mauchline Race, or Mauchline Fair,
I should be proud to meet you there;
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care,
If we forgather;
An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware
Wi' ane anither.
The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter,
An' kirsen him wi' reekin water;
Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter,
To cheer our heart;
An' faith, we'se be acquainted better
Before we part.
Awa ye selfish, war'ly race,
Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace,
Ev'n love an' friendship should give place
To catch-the-plack!
I dinna like to see your face,
Nor hear your crack.
But ye whom social pleasure charms
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms,
Who hold your being on the terms,
"Each aid the others,"
Come to my bowl, come to my arms,
My friends, my brothers!
But, to conclude my lang epistle,
As my auld pen's worn to the gristle,
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,
Who am, most fervent,
While I can either sing or whistle,
Your friend and servant.
致拉布雷克书
写给一位苏格兰老诗人——1785年4月1日
在这迎春和紫荆开花的时候，
山鸡放开了歌喉，
大清早野兔满山走，
我的诗笔忽也有神，
因此未相识先把信投，
冒昧处请谅下情。
四旬斋的前夜此地曾有盛会，
织袜子、谈闲天，津津有味，
人人都笑逐颜开，
这些事不待细表，
最后我们敞开了胸怀，
引吭高歌真逍遥！
好歌不知唱了多少首，
有一首至今萦绕我心头，
它唱的是夫妻夜谈在小楼，
听得我内心感动思悠悠，
男的恩来女的爱，
人生如此才风流！
我从未见过任何诗人，
能写丈夫的深情如此传神，
因此我忙将作者的姓名问：
蒲伯，斯梯尔，还是皮亚蒂？
这才知原来是好脾气的老兄，
就住在缪寇克村里。
我一听十分高兴，
立时要知道诗人的生平，
你的相识就异口同声，
齐夸你的天才，
说是你诗品之高无匹伦，
生花妙笔真精彩。
他们说只要敬你一杯酒，
诗句就源源不断像河流，
庄重的和诙谐的全都有，
还加机智的警句。
寻遍苏格兰的乡村和城楼，
如此诗人难遇！
听完站起我发誓，
哪怕当掉犁头和鞍子，
哪怕去外乡流浪死，
尸骨不收野鸟食，
我也愿出钱买杯酒，
只要能听你谈诗。
恕我先谈自己情况：
自从初识之无的时光，
我就写下了诗句一行行，
虽都是独自低吟，
难登大雅之堂；
可似乎也还动听。
实际上我算不了什么诗人，
只不过偶然爱上了押韵，
更谈不上任何学问，
可是，那又有什么打紧！
只要诗神的秋波一转，
我就要浅唱低吟。
批评家们鼻子朝天，
指着我说：“你怎么敢写诗篇？
散文同韵文的区别你都看不见，
还谈什么其它？”
可是，真对不住，我的博学的对头，
你们此话可说得太差！
你们学院里的一套奇文，
偷人养汉也带上拉丁的雅名，
如果大自然规定叫你们愚蠢，
你们的文法又顶啥用？
还不如拿犁把地耕，
或将石块往家运。
这一撮迟钝又自傲的大笨蛋，
上了大学只使脑筋更混乱！
上学是个骡，毕业变个驴，
真相便是这般！
只因懂得了半句希腊语，
还妄想把文艺之宫来高攀！
我只求大自然给我一星火种，
我所求的学问便全在此中！
纵使我驾着大车和木犁，
浑身是汗水和泥土，
纵使我的诗神穿得朴素，
她可打进了心灵深处！
呵，给我兰姆赛的豪兴，
给我费格生 的勇敢和讽刺，
给我新朋友拉布雷克闪耀的才智，
假如我能有此缘分！
我就有了所需要的一切，
胜过天下的学问！
如果足下已有了够多的朋友，
（虽然真正的朋友颇为难求，）
只要你认为名额已满，
小弟决不相强；
但如果你还想结交个赤心汉，
请将我的名字写上。
我不愿替自己吹牛，
说起来只有错误和荒谬，
虽然也有些好心的朋友，
曾经一再把我夸；
但也有一些对头，
想要把我臭骂。
有一样毛病常是我的罪名，
说什么——上帝饶恕！——我喜欢女人！
常在跳舞和赶集的时候，
姑娘们把我的口袋掏光；
不过她们也给我好处，
这个她们也看得平常。
不论在摩希林的马会或市场，
同你相见将是我莫大骄傲！
只要我们能会面，
长谈一夜不可少！
让我们交换作诗的心得，
忘却人生的烦恼。
让我们碰杯用大碗，
拿热腾腾的烧酒把它们倒满，
然后坐下来一口喝干，
让欢乐充满心头！
我敢说酒过三杯就情投意合，
新交胜过老友。
滚开！贪图荣华富贵的东西！
他们不稀罕文采、礼貌和道理，
甚至瞧不起爱情和友谊——
一切全得让位给钱币！
他们呀，我不愿看他们的嘴脸，
更不想听他们的梦呓！
但是你们却喜欢朋友的交谊，
心里流荡着温暖的好意，
行事为人只按照一条道理：
“互助第一！”
你们呀，快来同我喝酒，同我拥抱，
我的朋友，我的兄弟！
现在我得把这封长信结束，
我的笔已经写秃；
希望你能遗我几行，
它将使我眼睛放光。
只要我一天能唱能吟，
我永远是你热情的朋友和仆人。
Tam o' Shanter
A Tale
When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet;
As market days are wearing late,
And folk begin to tak the gate,
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like a gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses).
O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder wi' the Miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on
The Smith and thee gat roarin' fou on;
That at the L—d's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday,
She prophesied that late or soon,
Thou wad be found, deep drown'd in Doon,
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!
But to our tale—Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi reaming swats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony:
Tam lo'ed him like a very brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;
And aye the ale was growing better:
The Landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious:
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The Landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy.
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!
But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white—then melts for ever;
Or like the Borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the Rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.—
Nae man can tether Time or Tide,
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:
That night, a child might understand,
The deil had business on his hand.
Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet,
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet,
Whiles glow'rin round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.
By this time he was cross the ford,
Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'.
Before him Doon pours all his floods,
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods,
The lightnings flash from pole to pole,
Near and more near the thunders roll,
When, glimmering tho' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze,
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle,
But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
She ventur'd forward on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance:
Nae cotillon, brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.—
Coffins stood round, like open presses,
That shaw'd the Dead in their last dresses;
And (by some devilish cantraip sleight)
Each in its cauld hand held a light.
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gabudid gape;
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted:
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;
A garter which a babe had strangled:
A knife, a father's throat had mangled.
Whom his ain son of life bereft,
The grey- hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair of horrible and awefu',
Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.
As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
The Piper loud and louder blew,
The dancers quick and quicker flew,
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her dudies to the wark,
And linkit at it in her sark!
Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans,
A' plump and strapping in their teens!
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flainen,
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!—
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush o' guid blue hair,
I wad hae gien them off my hurdies,
For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!
But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Louping an' flinging on a crummock,
I wonder did na turn thy stomach.
But Tam kent what was what fu' brawlie:
There was ae winsome wench and waulie
That night enlisted in the core,
Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore;
(For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd mony a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear);
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.
Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!
But here my Muse her wing maun cour,
Sic flights are far beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jad she was and strang),
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd:
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main:
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a thegither,
And roars out: ”Weel done, Cutty-sark!”
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch skreich and hollow.
Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin!
In hell, they'll roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stone o' the brig;*
There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the keystane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle!
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilka man and mother's son, take heed:
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,
Or Cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear;
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
赶集的人渐渐走散，
天色不早，都把路来赶；
这时候，我们捧一杯啤酒，
开怀痛饮，无虑无忧，
忘了苏格兰的里程特别长，
还有沼泽、水塘、山坡、断墙，
隔在酒店和老家之间，
老家门后守着老婆的铁青脸，
阴沉得像暴风雨就要来到，
她暂按心头火，只待发作大开炮！
汤姆刚从艾尔镇半夜骑驴上归途，
这事他心里已有数。
（古老的艾尔镇别处哪能比，
出好人、出美女天下第一！）
呵，汤姆，如果你聪明一点，
就该听了你老婆凯蒂的金玉良言！
她早说你是二流子不干正经，
只一味贪杯、吹牛、打扰四邻，
从正月到除夕整整一年长，
哪一天你赶集不灌黄汤？
要你送麦去磨面，
你就在磨房里喝光了身上的钱，
要你牵驴去打掌，
你就同铁匠有说有笑大醉火炉旁；
尽管安息日是上帝的规定，
你也同卖酒妇痛饮到天明。
你老婆早就预告，总有一朝，
你会葬身在杜河的滚滚波涛，
要不就在黑夜给鬼魂抓走，
在阿罗微古老阴森的教堂后头！
呵，温存的太太们！真叫我眼泪汪汪，
想起你们苦劝男人不要荒唐，
枕畔无数箴言，何等情重，
你们的丈夫却只当耳边风！
言归正传。一个赶集天的晚上，
汤姆坐在酒店里好生舒畅，
紧靠着壁炉，一杯又一杯，
啤酒的泡沫向上冒，神仙也愿来作陪，
何况下头还坐着鞋匠名约翰，
原是多年相识互相信赖的老酒伴；
汤姆爱他胜弟兄，
两人长日醉醺醺。
这一夜就是这样又说话来又歌唱，
酒味一杯更比一杯香。
汤姆又同那女店主谈得分外投机，
谁知有多少私情、多少甜蜜的默契！
鞋匠讲的故事一个比一个怪，
酒店老板边听边笑像发呆。
哪管它门外大风在怒号，
门里的人就像不知道！
忧愁之神看见了人们这等快乐，
一着急，就淹死在酒杯的一个角落。
时间的翅膀载着欢乐向前飞，
就像蜜蜂运宝把家回，
帝王虽有福，难比汤姆乐开怀，
他把人生的一切忧患都打败！
但是欢乐犹如那盛开的罂粟花，
枝头刚摘下，艳色即已差；
它又像雪片落河上，
顷刻的晶莹，永恒的消亡；
它又像那北极光，
一纵即逝，不知去何方；
它又像那美丽的霓虹，
在风暴里消失无踪。
时光的流逝谁也拉不住，
眼看汤姆就该动身去上路，
那正是黑暗到顶的二更天，
他万般无奈向驴上颠，
这样的黑夜真少有，
罪犯也不敢把路走。
狂风吹呀吹得要断气，
跟着就是一阵哗啦啦大雨下得急，
黑夜里猛见几道金光闪，
雷声霹雳人打颤。
那样的夜晚连吃奶孩子也懂事，
他知道魔鬼正在把人吃。
汤姆抱住驴背坐得紧，
这驴子叫梅琪，会跑会驮大有名。
汤姆骑着它冲过烂泥和水塘，
风雨雷电都不能将他挡。
他紧扣头上天蓝新呢帽，
口哼古老的苏格兰小调，
一面又四边紧瞧小心听，
单怕有鬼不声不响将他惊：
不料阿罗微教堂已来到，
那里僵尸和枭鸟夜夜在嘶叫。
这时汤姆越过了小溪，
这里曾有小贩陷在雪里断了气；
汤姆也冲过桦树底下的大石案，
这里醉鬼查理撞破脑袋死得惨；
汤姆也冲过树丛和土台，
这里猎人曾见婴儿被谋害；
离他不远，还有树旁一口井，
那里蒙戈的老娘吊了颈。
前面杜河里淘涌着滚滚波涛；
后面树林里怒吼着千军万马的风暴；
闪电劈打一棵一棵的大树，
雷声逼近，一步紧似一步——
这时从阴森的树林里忽见一片亮光，
灯火照明了整座阿罗微教堂，
从每个窗洞射出刺眼的光辉，
还有笑声来自快乐的舞会。
呵，勇敢的麦酒之神！
有你来壮胆，谁能骇我们！
两个铜板买啤酒，喝了什么也不怕；
一杯烧酒落了肚，胆大敢把鬼王拿！
汤姆的脑袋里蒸腾着刚才的美酒，
说实话，他对于鬼怪既不怕来也不愁。
倒是梅琪大吃一惊将步停，
无奈汤姆手打脚踢逼它前进，
等它走到灯光明亮处，
好家伙！原来是一场天魔舞！
男巫女妖跳得欢，
跳的不是法国来的新花样，
苏格兰的独舞、快步和旋转，
调子都熟悉，精神更饱满。
东边窗下有个座，
坐着尼克老妖魔！
他今夜现形为凶恶的黑毛癞皮狗，
在场专管把各种音乐来伴奏。
他把花笛一狂吹，群妖舞步就急转，
转得天昏地暗，连屋顶也闹穿。
四围放着无数棺材敞着盖，
带血的尸首一大排，
哪个妖魔出了一个怪主意，
还叫死人手拿烛火高举起。
我们英勇的汤姆借了烛光，
看清了这边的圣餐桌上，
摆着谋杀犯绞死后的骨头，
还有无名儿童的骷髅。
再加上一个才处决的小偷，
刚从绞绳割下，拖着长舌张血口；
桌上还有五把斧子，生满血锈；
五支短剑，刺过无数的咽喉；
一条带子，勒死过一个幼婴；
一把刀子，戳死过一个父亲，
杀父的是他亲生长子，
刀柄血迹里还沾着白发几丝。
此外还有许多悲惨可怕的事情，
光写出名目就要给法庭查禁。
汤姆又惊又怕，赶紧看究竟，
那一片笑呵，乐呵，玩得正起劲：
笛子越吹越响，
舞步越跳越欢：
妖魔们急转、交叉、分开、合拢、把手牵，
直跳得女妖一个个流汗冒热烟，
纷纷把外面的破衣都脱掉，
只穿贴身汗衣一阵狂跳！
呀，汤姆呀！汤姆！如果跳舞的是年轻姑娘，
年方二八，体态轻盈口脂香，
如果她们的汗衣不是那块油抹布，
而是雪白透明绣花滚边的细夏布，
那我也愿立刻脱下我唯一的呢马裤，
天气再冷也不怕光屁股，
这裤子原是蓝绒缝成料子好，
但为了瞅一下姑娘，马上可送掉！
可是这里却只见风干瘪嘴的老妖婆，
又瘦又丑，牛马见了也要躲，
她们支着拐杖东倒西歪地使劲跳，
叫人看了把昨天的晚饭都吐掉！
不过汤姆这人可真有一手，
他在那晚参加跳舞的群魔里头，
挑中了一个高大结实的母夜叉。
（她的威名远震海滨所有的人家，
一扬腿就踢死农民几头好牲口，
猛发作又撞翻海上无数大渔舟，
地里的大麦玉米她常拔，
这一带乡下人听了就害怕。）
今晚她上身只剩一件粗布短背心，
原是她多年前做闺女买的时新，
虽然论长度现在已经难蔽体，
她对这唯一的好衣还是很得意。
啊，虔诚的祖母一定觉得很稀奇，
当年她买衬衣送给小南尼，
花去她全部家产两镑整，
怎么今天会出现在跳舞的女妖身！
这里我的诗神必须打住，
太高的诗境它也飞不上去。
且不表南尼如何蹦了又跳，
（她身段灵活，体质也好，）
也不表汤姆怎样瞧得发呆，
只觉得眼花缭乱眼界大开。
单说那撒旦摇头摆尾身乱扭，
猛吹笛子，满脸出油，
引得那妖魔一个个腾空怪跳，如醉如狂，
这时汤姆早将戒心抛得精光，
他脱口大叫：“好哇！好个半截汗衫！”
叫声未绝，刷一下灯火全暗，
汤姆一看不妙，赶紧策着梅琪向前冲，
魔鬼的全部人马早已齐出动！
好比一群愤怒的马蜂
为报破巢之仇向讨厌的牧童猛攻；
好比一群眼睛发红的猎犬
朝着到口的野兔一个劲儿急窜；
好比菜场里高喊一声“捉贼！”
众人就汹涌如潮到处乱追——
就这样梅琪向前奔，妖巫在后赶，
那一片哭叫怒吼叫人胆战心寒！
啊呀，汤姆呀！啊呀！
这一下你可真叫是苦不堪言！
在地狱里他们会把你像咸鱼用油来煎！
你的凯蒂在家里等了一场空，
她就要变成寡妇把眼睛哭个通红！
梅琪呀，梅琪，拚了性命也要快跑，
赶紧抢到那河上的大石桥！
只要冲到桥中间，你就可以不再怕，
妖精们遇河即止，见了流水只能发傻。
但是桥头未到事情已不妙，
梅琪得赶紧把身后的妖精先摔掉：
原来南尼这女妖跑在最前打先锋，
紧跟着这匹忠心的好驴向桥冲，
她恶狠狠腾空而起，要将汤姆一把抓，
没想到梅琪浑身是胆，本领到家——
只见它猛一跳就将主人安全驮上桥，
不想却永远丢下了尾巴一条，
原来那女妖死命抓住它后身，
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