1.
Hear now the Song of the Dead - in the North by the torn berg-edges -
They that look still to the Pole, asleep by their hide-stripped sledges.
Song of the Dead in the South - in the sun by... Читать дальше

1.
Hear now the Song of the Dead - in the North by the torn berg-edges -
They that look still to the Pole, asleep by their hide-stripped sledges.
Song of the Dead in the South - in the sun by their skeleton horses,
Where the warrigal whimpers and bays through the dust
of the sear river-courses.

Song of the Dead in the East - in the heat-rotted jungle hollows,
Where the dog-ape barks in the kloof -
in the brake of the buffalo-wallows.
Song of the Dead in the West -
in the Barrens, the waste that betrayed them,
Where the wolverene tumbles their packs
from the camp and the grave-mound they made them;
Hear now the Song of the Dead!

2.
We`re foot—slog—slog—slog—sloggin` over Africa!
Foot—foot—foot—foot—sloggin` over Africa!
(Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up and down again!)
There`s no discharge in the war!

Seven—six—eleven—five—nine-an`-twenty mile to-day
Four—eleven—seventeen—thirty-two the day before
(Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up and down again!)
There`s no discharge in the war!

Don`t—don`t—don`t—don`t—look at what`s in front of you
(Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up an` down again);
Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin` `em,
An` there`s no discharge in the war.

Try—try—try—try—to think o` something different -
Oh—my—God—keep—me from goin` lunatic!
(Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up an` down again!)
There`s no discharge in the war.

Count—count—count—count—the bullets in the bandoliers;
If—your—eyes—drop—they will get atop o` you
(Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up and down again) —
There`s no discharge in the war!

We—can—stick—out—`unger, thirst, an` weariness,
But—not—not—not—not the chronic sight of `em;
Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up an` down again,
An` there`s no discharge in the war!

`Tain`t—so—bad—by—day because o` company,
But night—brings—long—strings o` forty thousand million
Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin` up an` down again.
There`s no discharge in the war!

I—`ave—marched—six—weeks in `Ell an` certify
It—is—not—fire—devils dark or anything
But boots—boots—boots, movin` up an` down again,
An` there`s no discharge in the war!

3.
If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o’ mine. O mother o’ mine!
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o’ mine. O mother o’ mine!

If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
Mother o mine. O mother o’ mine!
I know whose tears would come down to me,
Mother o’ mine. O mother o’ mine!

If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o’ mine. O mother o’ mine!

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Стихи Луиса де Камоэнса (в переводе В.Парнаха)

Излюбленного вечера прохлада,
Зеленые тенистые каштаны,
Рек продвижение через поляны,
Где размышлений никаких не надо,

Далеких волн прибой,... Читать дальше

Стихи Луиса де Камоэнса (в переводе В.Парнаха)

Излюбленного вечера прохлада,
Зеленые тенистые каштаны,
Рек продвижение через поляны,
Где размышлений никаких не надо,

Далеких волн прибой, чужие страны,
В закатном воздухе холмов ограда,
Последний топот согнанного стада,
Бегущих облаков седые караваны, -

Всё, наконец, чем это мирозданье
В разнообразии нас одарило, -
Когда тебя не вижу, всё - напрасно,

Всё без тебя докучно и постыло,
Я без тебя встречаю ежечасно,
В великой радости - одно страданье.

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