Стихи

'Here the hangman stops his cart:
Now the best of friends must part.
Fare you well, for ill fare I:
Live, lads, and I will die.

'Oh, at home had I but stayed
Prenticed to my father's trade,
Had I stuck to plane and adze,
I had not been lost, my lads.

'Then I might have built perhaps
Gallows-trees for other chaps,
Never dangled on my own,
Had I left but ill alone.

'Now, you see, they hang me high,
And the people passing by
Stop to shake their fists and curse;
So 'tis come from ill to worse.

'Here hang I, and right and left
Two poor fellows hang for theft:
All the same's the luck we prove,
Though the midmost hangs for love.

'Comrades all, that stand and gaze,
Walk henceforth in other ways;
See my neck and save your own:
Comrades all, leave ill alone.

'Make some day a decent end,
Shrewder fellows than your friend.
Fare you well, for ill fare I:
Live lads, and I will die.

– 47- ПРАВЕДНЫЙ РАЗБОЙНИК

«Что ж он, сука, так орет?!
Прямо зло меня берет.
Коль сумел ты воровать,
Так умей ответ держать!

По-пацански умирай!
Западло весь этот хай.
Взял бы хоть пример с него,
Парня бедного того.

Этот странный фраерок
Нас покруче, видит бог!
И совсем уж западло
Хохотать ему назло!

Мы-то хоть пожили всласть,
Можем с музыкой пропасть.
Ну а он совсем не то,
Пропадает ни за что.

Ужас видеть, как его
Измудохали всего,
Как куражились над ним,
Агнцем божиим таким,

В эти праздничные дни.»
Вслух же рек он: «Помяни
Мя во Царствии твоем!»,
Сжалившись над парнем тем.

И тогда Спаситель мой
Еле слышно, чуть живой,
Отвечает блатарю:
«Будешь днесь со мной в раю!»

– XLVIII-

Be still, my soul, be still;
the arms you bear are brittle,
Earth and high heaven are fixt
of old and founded strong.
Think rather, – call to thought,
if now you grieve a little,
The days when we had rest,
O soul, for they were long.

Men loved unkindness then,
but lightless in the quarry
I slept and saw not; tears
fell down, I did not mourn;
Sweat ran and blood sprang out
and I was never sorry:
Then it was well with me,
in days ere I was born.

Now, and I muse for why
and never find the reason,
I pace the earth, and drink
the air, and feel the sun.
Be still, be still, my soul;
it is but for a season:
Let us endure an hour
and see injustice done.

Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime
foundation;
All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all
are vain:
Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation —
Oh why did I awake? when shall I sleep
again?

– 48-