My Rival - типа самизнаетепрочто-4
Jul. 4th, 2006 02:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mincaoI go to concert, party, ball--
What profit is in these?
I sit alone against the wall
And strive to look at ease.
The incense that is mine by right
They burn before Her shrine;
And that's because I'm seventeen
And she is forty-nine.
I cannot check my girlish blush,
My colour comes and goes;
I redden to my finger-tips,
And sometimes to my nose.
But She is white where white should be
And red where red should shine.
The blush that flies at seventeen
Is fixed at forty-nine.
I wish I had Her constant cheek:
I wish that I could sing
All sorts of funny little songs,
Not quite the proper thing.
I'm very gauche and very shy,
Her jokes aren't in my line;
And, worst of all, I'm seventeen,
While She is forty-nine.
The young men come, the young men go,
Each pink and white and neat,
She's older than their mothers, but
They grovel at Her feet.
They walk beside Her 'rickshaw-wheels--
They never walk by mine;
And that's because I'm seventeen
And She is forty-nine.
She rides with half a dozen men
(She calls them "boys" and "mashers")
I trot along the Mall alone;
My prettiest frocks and sashes
Don't help to fill my programme-card,
And vainly I repine
From ten to two A.M. Ah me!
Would I were forty-nine.
She calls me "darling," "pet," and "dear,"
And "sweet retiring maid."
I'm always at the back, I know,
She puts me in the shade.
She introduces me to men,
"Cast" lovers, I opine,
For sixty takes to seventeen,
Nineteen to forty-nine.
But even She must older grow
And end Her dancing days,
She can't go on for ever so
At concerts, balls, and plays.
One ray of priceless hope I see
Before my footsteps shine:
Just think, that She'll be eighty-one
When I am forty-nine!
(с) Киплинг
Жаль, не могу найти русский перевод.
What profit is in these?
I sit alone against the wall
And strive to look at ease.
The incense that is mine by right
They burn before Her shrine;
And that's because I'm seventeen
And she is forty-nine.
I cannot check my girlish blush,
My colour comes and goes;
I redden to my finger-tips,
And sometimes to my nose.
But She is white where white should be
And red where red should shine.
The blush that flies at seventeen
Is fixed at forty-nine.
I wish I had Her constant cheek:
I wish that I could sing
All sorts of funny little songs,
Not quite the proper thing.
I'm very gauche and very shy,
Her jokes aren't in my line;
And, worst of all, I'm seventeen,
While She is forty-nine.
The young men come, the young men go,
Each pink and white and neat,
She's older than their mothers, but
They grovel at Her feet.
They walk beside Her 'rickshaw-wheels--
They never walk by mine;
And that's because I'm seventeen
And She is forty-nine.
She rides with half a dozen men
(She calls them "boys" and "mashers")
I trot along the Mall alone;
My prettiest frocks and sashes
Don't help to fill my programme-card,
And vainly I repine
From ten to two A.M. Ah me!
Would I were forty-nine.
She calls me "darling," "pet," and "dear,"
And "sweet retiring maid."
I'm always at the back, I know,
She puts me in the shade.
She introduces me to men,
"Cast" lovers, I opine,
For sixty takes to seventeen,
Nineteen to forty-nine.
But even She must older grow
And end Her dancing days,
She can't go on for ever so
At concerts, balls, and plays.
One ray of priceless hope I see
Before my footsteps shine:
Just think, that She'll be eighty-one
When I am forty-nine!
(с) Киплинг
Жаль, не могу найти русский перевод.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-07-04 10:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-04 10:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-04 10:25 am (UTC)МОЯ СОПЕРНИЦА
Я езжу в оперу, на бал,
Но это ни к чему;
Я всё одна, и до меня
Нет дела никому.
Не мне, а только ей одной
Все фимиам кадят,
Затем, что мне семнадцать лет,
А ей под пятьдесят!
Я то бледна, то вспыхну вдруг
Вся - до корней волос,
Краснеют щеки у меня,
А часто даже нос.
У ней же краски на лице
Где надо, там лежат;
Румянец прочен у того,
Кому под пятьдесят.
Она добра ко мне, но я
При ней в тени всегда;
Она с мужчинами меня
Знакомит иногда,
Но разговаривать со мной
Лишь старики хотят,
А молодые рвутся к ней -
Ведь ей под пятьдесят!
Но ей не вечно танцевать,
Года возьмут свое;
Толпы поклонников уже
Не будет у нее!
И отыграюсь я тогда,
Пленяя всех подряд:
Ей будет восемьдесят два,
А мне под пятьдесят!
Забавно, что если героине 17, а сопернице - 49, то через 32 года сопернице будет все же 81, как у Киплинга. :)
no subject
Date: 2006-07-04 10:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-04 10:26 am (UTC)перевод вот, например, но мне оригинал определенно нравится больше :)
no subject
Date: 2006-07-04 10:31 am (UTC)