or in shroud we wound him;

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest

    With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

    And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

    And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed

    And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head,

    And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone,

    And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him —

But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on

    In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done

    When the clock struck the hour for retiring;

And we heard the distant and random gun

    That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

    From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,

    But we left him alone with his glory!

Чарльз Вольф (1791–1823)

На погребение английского генерала сира Джона Мура

Не бил барабан перед смутным полком,

   Когда мы вождя хоронили,

И труп не с ружейным прощальным огнем

   Мы в недра земли опустили.

И бедная почесть к ночи отдана;

   Штыками могилу копали;

Нам тускло светила в тумане луна,

   И факелы дымно сверкали.

На нем не усопших покров гробовой,

   Лежит не в дощатой неволе —

Обернут в широкий свой плащ боевой,

   Уснул он, как ратники в поле.

Недолго, но жарко молилась творцу

   Дружина его удалая

И молча смотрела в глаза мертвецу,

   О завтрашнем дне помышляя.

Быть может, наутро внезапно явясь,

   Враг дерзкий, надменности полный,

Тебя не уважит, товарищ, а нас

   Умчат невозвратные волны.

О нет, не коснется в таинственном сне

   До храброго дума печали!

Твой одр одинокий в чужой стороне

   Родимые руки постлали.

Еще не свершен был обряд роковой,

   И час наступил разлученья;

И с валу ударил перун вестовой,

   И нам он не вестник сраженья.

Прости же, товарищ! Здесь нет ничего

   На память могилы кровавой;

И мы оставляем тебя одного

   С твоею бессмертною славой.

Перевод И. Козлова

Robert Motherwell (1797–1835)

* * *

My heid is like to rend, Willie,

My heart is like to break;

I’m wearin’ aff my feet, Willie,

I’m dyin’ for your sake!

O, say ye’ll think on me, Willie,

Your hand on my briest-bane, —

O, say ye’ll think of me, Willie,

When I am deid and gane!

It’s vain to comfort me, Willie,

Sair grief maun ha’e its will;

But let me rest upon your briest

To sab and greet my fill.

Let me sit on your knee, Willie,

Let me shed by your hair,

And look into the face, Willie,

I never sall see mair!

I’m sittin’ on your knee, Willie,

For the last time in my life, —

A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,

A mither, yet nae wife.

Ay, press your hand upon my heart,

And press it mair and mair,

Or it will burst the silken twine,

Sae strang is its despair.

O, wae’s me for the hour, Willie,

When we thegither met, —

O, wae’s me for the time, Willie,

That our first tryst was set!

O, wae’s me for the loanin’ green

Where we were wont to gae, —

And wae’s me for the destinie

That gart me luve thee sae!

O, dinna mind my words, Willie,

I downa seek to blame;

But O, it’s hard to live, Willie,

And dree a warld’s shame!

Het tears are hailin’ ower our cheek,

And hailin’ ower your chin:

Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,

For sorrow, and for sin?

I’m weary o’ this warld, Willie,

And sick wi’ a’ I see,

I canna live as I ha’e lived,

Or be as I should be.

But fauld unto your heart, Willie,

The heart that still is thine,

And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek

Ye said was red langsyne.

A stoun’ gaes through my heid, Willie,

A sair stoun’ through my heart;

O, haud me up and let me kiss

Thy brow ere we twa pairt.

Anither, and anither yet! —

How fast my life-strings break! —

Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirk-yard

Step lichtly for my sake!

The lav’rock in the lift, Willie,

That lifts far ower our heid,

Will sing the morn as merrilie

Abune the clay-cauld deid;

And this green turf we’re sittin’ on,

Wi’ dew-draps shimmerin’ sheen,

Will hap the heart that luvit thee

As warld has seldom seen.

But O, remember