04 Mai

„The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie” de Robert Burns

“O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu’ case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An’ bear them to my Master dear.
“Tell him, if e’er again he keep
As muckle gear as buy a sheep—
O, curgi tu lacrimă pe nas,
Tu vers, fă-i jalnic parastas
Căci bardul e la greu impas
Şi leacuri nu-s…
Sărmana Maillie, jalnic ceas!
S-a stins, s-a dus…


O, bid him never tie them mair,
Wi’ wicked strings o’ hemp or hair!
But ca’ them out to park or hill,
An’ let them wander at their will:
So may his flock increase, an’ grow
To scores o’ lambs, an’ packs o’ woo’!
De păgubeai vrun flecuşteţ
De bun lumesc, biet cântăreţ,
N-ai fi atât de plângăreţ,
În sur veşmânt;
Dar oi ca moarta mai de preţ
Nu… nu mai sunt!
“Tell him, he was a Master kin’,
An’ aye was guid to me an’ mine;
An’ now my dying charge I gie him,
My helpless lambs, I trust them wi’ him.
“O, bid him save their harmless lives,
Frae dogs, an’ tods, an’ butcher’s knives!
Mereu mă vrea alăturea
Iar când pe-aproape mă simţea
Ea behăind se năpustea:
Venea la tata…
Nici frate n-am avut ca ea,
Ca răposata.
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend themsel’;
An’ tent them duly, e’en an’ morn,
Wi’ taets o’ hay an’ ripps o’ corn.
“An’ may they never learn the gaets,
Of ither vile, wanrestfu’ pets—
A fost o mia mintoasă foarte,
Ştia cum trebui’ să se poarte,
Pe urma ei ostreţe sparte
Eu n-am plătit.
De când mi-o smulse hâda moarte,
M-am sihăstrit.
To slink thro’ slaps, an’ reave an’ steal
At stacks o’ pease, or stocks o’ kail!
So may they, like their great forbears,
For mony a year come thro the shears:
So wives will gie them bits o’ bread,
An’ bairns greet for them when they’re dead.
Când se aburcă din vâlcel
Spre mine zburdăreţu-i miel
Şi-i scormon dintr-un coltucel
Fărâmi de miez,
Pe ea o văz, privind la el,
Şi… lăcrimez.
“My poor toop-lamb, my son an’ heir,
O, bid him breed him up wi’ care!
An’ if he live to be a beast,
To pit some havins in his breast!
“An’ warn him—what I winna name—
To stay content wi’ yowes at hame;
N-a fost prăsilă de oiţă
De-aici de baştină, ci spiţă
Dintr-un berbec şi-o mioriţă
Aduşi pe mare;
Nu-i foarfec să fi tuns vro miţă
Mai acătare!
But aye keep mind to moop an’ mell,
Wi’ sheep o’ credit like thysel’!
“And now, my bairns, wi’ my last breath,
I lea’e my blessin wi’ you baith:
An’ when you think upo’ your mither,
Mind to be kind to ane anither.
Acela care-a născocit
Anume pentru gâtuit
Mârşavul ştreang afurisit,
Proclet să fie!
Azi poartă Robin semn cernit
La pălărie.
“Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail,
To tell my master a’ my tale;
An’ bid him burn this cursed tether,
An’ for thy pains thou’se get my blather.”
This said, poor Mailie turn’d her head,
And clos’d her een amang the dead!
Voi, barzi din Doon, voi cimpoierii
Din Ayr, veniţi în faptul serii
Şi-alăturaţi-vă durerii
Din cântul meu…
De când se stinse biata Mailie
Mi-i tare greu!
Robert Burns traducere de Mihnea Gheorghiu

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