И он лежал в траве зеленой,
Как порванный мешок.
Был слышен хруст костей – не стоны.
Фатальным стал прыжок.
Пишут наши птенчики
Книжки интересные,
И повар их читает
Тогда, когда он сыт.
Читать – не переваривать!
Ведь, буквы, как известно,
Когда слегка поджарены,
Утрачивают вид.
Играют наши птенчики
На дудочках изящных
Для зевак, храпящих
На пляжах в ранний час.
И говорят зеваки:
– Прелестно! Потрясающе!
Скорей ловите ПЕННИчки!
Скорей оставьте нас.
Любят наши птенчики
Крокодилов в соусе.
В мечтаньях кратких, радужных,
Съедают сей обед.
Под соусом, иль голый он,
А не таков, как кажется,
Тот крокодил, что голоден.
Уж так устроен свет.
Верблюд пришёл, под вечер сонный,
И с грустью проронил:
– О! Сердце! Кости! Поросёнок!
Как бледен ты! Как мил!
Но я предупреждал, однако,
Не трать напрасно сил!
Не всё – упорство и отвага.
Здесь нужен легкий стиль.
А наш несчастный поросёнок,
Как каменный мешок,
Лежал среди травы зелёной,
Был тих и одинок.
Не рвал свою щетину в клочья,
Копытом не стучал.
– Хочу я прыгать очень-очень! –
Он больше не кричал.
И жаба мрачная, как туча,
В печали и тоске,
– Ах, до чего я невезуча, –
Вздыхала вдалеке.
– Теперь мне не видать награды,
Я не взойду наверх.
Ни бугорок, ни пруд прохладный
Не получу вовек.
Маленькие птенчики
Баронов кормят плюшками.
Стрелять они обучены,
Обучены плясать.
И так, забавы ради,
Зимой под грохот пушечный
Разрезают сёмгу
И ложатся спать.
Маленькие птенчики
Прячут преступления
В саквояжи бедные,
И на кутежах
Пьют благословенные,
А друзья их съедены.
Пьют благословенные,
Пьют, но и дрожат.
Маленькие птенчики –
В почестях и золоте.
Звонит, однако, колокол,
Вот и пробил час.
И бледнеют птенчики,
Морщатся от холода...
А ваш слуга покорный
Завершил рассказ.
Оригинал на английском (1893)
Pig-Tale
Little Birds are dining
Warily and well,
Hid in mossy celclass="underline"
Hid, I say, by waiters
Gorgeous in their gaiters –
I've a Tale to tell.
Little Birds are feeding
Justices with jam,
Rich in frizzled ham:
Rich, I say, in oysters
Haunting shady cloisters –
That is what I am.
Little Birds are teaching
Tigresses to smile,
Innocent of guile:
Smile, I say, not smirkle –
Mouth a semicircle,
That's the proper style.
Little Birds are sleeping
All among the pins,
Where the loser wins:
Where, I say, he sneezes
When and how he pleases –
So the Tale begins.
There was a Pig that sat alone
Beside a ruined Pump:
By day and night he made his moan –
It would have stirred a heart of stone
To see him wring his hoofs and groan,
Because he could not jump.
A certain Camel heard him shout –
A Camel with a hump.
“Oh, is it Grief, or is it Gout?
What is this bellowing about?”
That Pig replied, with quivering snout,
“Because I cannot jump!”
That Camel scanned him, dreamy-eyed.
“Methinks you are too plump.
I never knew a Pig so wide –
That wobbled so from side to side –
Who could, however much he tried,
Do such a thing as jump!
Yet mark those trees, two miles away,
All clustered in a clump:
If you could trot there twice a day,
Nor ever pause for rest or play,
In the far future – Who can say? –
You may be fit to jump”.
That Camel passed, and left him there,
Beside the ruined Pump.
Oh, horrid was that Pig's despair!
His shrieks of anguish filled the air.
He wrung his hoofs, he rent his hair,
Because he could not jump.
There was a Frog that wandered by –
A sleek and shining lump:
Inspected him with fishy eye,
And said: “O Pig, what makes you cry?”
And bitter was that Pig's reply:
“Because I cannot jump!”
That Frog he grinned a grin of glee,
And hit his chest a thump.
“O Pig, – he said, – be ruled by me,
And you shall see what you shall see.
This minute, for a trifling fee,
I'll teach you how to jump!
You may be faint from many a fall,
And bruised by many a bump:
But, if you persevere through all,
And practise first on something small,
Concluding with a ten-foot wall,
You'll find that you can jump!”
That Pig looked up with joyful start:
“Oh Frog, you are a trump!
Your words have healed my inward smart –
Come, name your fee and do your part:
Bring comfort to a broken heart,
By teaching me to jump!”
“My fee shall be a mutton-chop,
My goal this ruined Pump.
Observe with what an airy flop
I plant myself upon the top!
Now bend your knees and take a hop,
For that's the way to jump!”
Uprose that Pig, and rushed, full whack,
Against the ruined Pump:
Rolled over like an empty sack,
And settled down upon his back,
While all his bones at once went “Crack!”
It was a fatal jump.
Little Birds are writing
Interesting books,
To be read by cooks: