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III. Learn the poem by heart




IV. The following are three translations of John Barleycorn. Which variant do you prefer? Give reasons for your choice:

ДЖОН ЯЧМЕННОЕ ЗЕРНО

Перевод Э. Багрицкого

Три короля из трех сторон Решили заодно: - Ты должен сгинуть, юный Джон Ячменное Зерно! Погибни, Джон, - в дыму, в пыли, Твоя судьба темна!... И вот взрывают короли Могилу для зерна... Весенний дождь стучит в окно В апрельском гуле гроз, - И Джон Ячменное Зерно Сквозь перегной пророс... Весенним солнцем обожжен Набухший перегной, - И по ветру мотает Джон Усатой головой... Но душной осени дано Свой выполнить урок, - И Джон Ячменное Зерно От груза занемог... Он ржавчиной покрыт сухой, Он - в полевой пыли... - Теперь мы справимся с тобой! - Ликуют короли... Косою звонкой срезан он. Сбит с ног, повергнут в прах, И, скрученный веревкой, Джон Трясется на возах... Его цепами стали бить, Кидали вверх и вниз - И, чтоб вернее погубить, Подошвами прошлись... Он в ямине с водой - и вот Пошел на дно, на дно... Теперь, конечно, пропадет Ячменное Зерно!... И плоть его сожгли сперва, И дымом стала плоть, И закружились жернова, Чтоб сердце размолоть... Готовьте благородный сок! Ободьями скреплен Бочонок, сбитый из досок, - И в нем бунтует Джон... Три короля из трех сторон
Собрались заодно, - Пред ними в кружке ходит Джон Ячменное Зерно... Он брызжет силой дрожжевой, Клокочет и поет, Он ходит в чаше круговой, Он пену на пол льет... Пусть не осталось ничего, И твой развеян прах, Но кровь из сердца твоего Живет в людских сердцах!... Кто, горьким хмелем упоен, Увидел в чаше дно - Кричи: - Вовек прославлен Джон Ячменное Зерно!...

ДЖОН ЯЧМЕННОЕ ЗЕРНО

Перевод Т. А. Щепкиной-Куперник

Раз три восточные царя Решили заодно Дать клятву, что погибнет Джон Ячменное Зерно. Вспахали поле, глубоко Зарыт был в землю он, И громко поклялись цари, Что умер славный Джон. Но вот настала вновь весна, С теплом дожди пошли, И Джон, на удивленье всем, Вдруг встал из-под земли. С приходом лета стал расти И крепнуть, что ни день: Вся в острых иглах голова, Попробуй кто, "задень! Но осень кроткая пришла... Джон стал слабей, бледней, Согнулся, головой поник, - Не ждать уж лучших дней. Он все хирел и все желтел, Заметно постарев... И тут пошли его враги Выказывать свой гнев. Косою острой до колен Подрезали его... Лежал он связан на возу, Как плут за воровство. Сняв, оземь бросили его И били из всех сил, На ветер вывесив потом, Чтоб он его крутил. И в яму темную налив Воды по самый край, Туда забросили его: Тони иль выплывай! И снова вынули: настал. Для горших мук черед. Пока в нем признак жизни был Возили взад, вперед. Сожгли на медленном огне Весь мозг его костей... Всех хуже мельник: раздавил Его меж двух камней! И взяли сердца кровь его. И пили без конца. Чем больше пьют, тем веселей Становятся сердца! Да! Джон Ячменное Зерно Герой отважный был: Кто кровь отведает его, В том вспыхнет смелый пыл! Забвенье горю даст она, Удвоит радость в нас, Заставит, не смахнув слезы, Вдову пуститься в пляс! Так возгласим за Джона тост, И пусть из рода в род Навек в Шотландии его Потомство процветает!

ДЖОН ЯЧМЕННОЕ ЗЕРНО

Перевод С. Маршака

Трех королей разгневал он, И было решено, Что навсегда погибнет Джон Ячменное Зерно. Велели выкопать сохой Могилу короли, Чтоб славный Джон, боец лихой, Не вышел из земли.
Травой покрылся горный склон, В ручьях воды полно... А из земли выходит Джон Ячменное Зерно. Все так же буен и упрям, С пригорка в летний зной Грозит он копьями врагам, Качая головой. Но стало холодно в полях Дни осени пришли. И Джон, состарившись, зачах, Склонился до земли. Настало время помирать - Зима недалека. И тут-то недруги опять Взялись за старика. Его подрезал острый нож, Свалил беднягу с ног И, как бродягу на правёж, Везут его на ток. Дубасить Джона принялись Злодеи поутру. Потом, подбрасывая ввысь, Кружили на ветру. Он был в колодец, погружен - На сумрачное дно. Но и в воде не тонет Джон Ячменное Зерно. Не пощадив его костей, Швырнули их в костер. А сердце мельник меж камней Безжалостно растер. Бушует кровь его в котле, Под обручем бурлит. Вскипает в кружках на столе И душу веселит. Недаром был покойный Джон При жизни молодец, - Отвагу подымает он Со дна людских сердец. Он гонит вон из головы Докучный рой забот. За кружкой сердце у вдовы От радости поет. Так пусть же до конца времен Не высыхает дно В бочонке, где клокочет Джон Ячменное Зерно!

V. Give the metrical scheme used in the following verses. Point out all the violations of the metre;

THE SONG OF HIAWATHA

By H. W. Longfellow (1807-1882)

(excerpt)

Should you ask me, whence these stories? Whence these legends and traditions, With the. odors of the forest, With the dew and damp of meadows, With the curling smoke of wigwams, With the rushing of great rivers, With, their frequent repetitions, And their wild reverberations, As of thunder in the Mountains? I should answer, I should tell you, "From the forests and the prairies, From the great lakes of the Northland, From the land of the Ojibways, From the land of the Dacotahs, From the mountains, moors and fenlands, Where the heron, the Shub-shuh-gah, Feeds.among the reeds and rushes. I repeat them as I heard them
From the lips of Nawadaha, The musician, the sweet singer."

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS

(excerpt)

By R. Burns (1759-1796)

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, Chasing the wild deer and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. All hail to the Highlands, all hail to the North, The birth-place of valour, the country of worth, Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

ANSWER ТО A CHILD'S QUESTIONS

(excerpt)

By S. T. Coleridge (1772-1834)

Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, The linnet and thrush say: "I love and I love!" In the winter they're silent - the wind is so strong, What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing, and loving - all come back together. But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love. The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he - "I love my Love, and my Love loves me."

THE SLAVE'S DREAM

(excerpt)

By H. W. Longfellow (1807-1882;

Beside the ungathered rice he lay His sickle in his hand; His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried in the sand. Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep He saw his Native Land. Wide through the landscape of his dreams The lordly Niger flowed; Beneath the palm-trees on the plain Once more a king he strode; And heard the tinkling caravans Descend the mountain-road.

UNIT ELEVEN

TEXT

SPITFIRE JOHNNY

By Oreste Pinto

Towards the end of May 1945, I was asked to attend a conference of Resistance leaders in Edinhoven where honours and awards for patriotism were to be discussed.

It must have been the second or third day of the conference that someone mentioned Spitfire Johnny. The official meeting had.broken up for that session and I was drinking coffee with perhaps half a dozen of the Resistance representatives. One of my companions was a man named Bloot. He was slight and stooping, a thin academic figure with sparse gray hair. He spoke softly in a dry, pedantic voice. You would have taken him for a University professor but he was one of the most ruthless and cunning guerrilla fighters I ever came across.

Another man present was Ritten, a big burly creature with two fingers missing on his right hand. He also had fought the German invaders bitterly and had personally killed more than a dozen of them in commando-type raids. Men like these had resisted for many years, long before there had seemed any hope of victory and before the R. A. F. had begun to drop arms and ammunition to them. In the beginning, if one wanted to kill a German sentry, the job had to be done with bare hands or a sharpened kitchen knife. Looking round the gathering, I thought that each of these men deserved a whole chestful of medals.

As always happens when fighting men are gathered together, the talk turned to those who did not survive. Someone - I think it was Ritten - said, "There ought to be a posthumous award for Spitfire Johnny."

"Not posthumous," Bloot interrupted him. "He's still alive."

"No, he's dead, I tell you."

"He can't be dead - unless something's happened to him in the last few weeks. A friend of mine saw him less than two months ago."

"With due respect, I can't believe that. I've seen his grave with these eyes - on a farm not far from Zutphen," said Ritten.

"A grave's not evidence," Bloot argued dryly. "Anyone can dig a hole and write a name on the headboard. I won't believe Johnny's dead until I actually see his body. This is just another of his tricks, I'll be bound."

"How would you identify his body, if you did see it?" Ritten retorted. "You never met him in the flesh, did you?"

"That's true - but I still won't agree- he's dead. Not till I get definite proof."

"Isn't his grave proof enough?" said Ritten.

The argument was beginning to go round in circles and, besides, I was getting intrigued with this strangely named character who

I guessed to be a Resistance man, whether dead or alive. To break up the debate, I asked, "Who is this Spitfire Johnny you're talking about? I've never heard of him."

"Never heard of Spitfire Johnny?" asked Ritten in his turn, incredulously.

"No, never."

"Colonel," he said impressively, "we've all done something for this country of ours. But none of us here - and he spread his maimed hand to take in the whole company - could equal the achievements of Spitfire Johnny. I'm surprised you never got to hear of him back in England. After all, he was an Englishman."

"/s an Englishman," Bloot corrected him.

"Is or was - and I for one know he's dead, poor fellow - Johnny.was a great man. Your King ought to give him the Victoria Cross."

"But who was he?" I persisted. "How did he get that name?"

Bloot butted in. "Don't let us talk about him in the past tense. To me Johnny will always be alive. He is an Englishman, a fighter pilot in the R. A. F., who got shot down in a sweep over Hilversum at the beginning of last year. The engine of his plane failed and he must have known he would never get back across the North Sea. So he glided on over Apeldoorn and finally crash-landed a few miles away. He was hurt when he crashed and he holed up in a farm between Apeldoorn and Zutphen until his leg got better. Then, instead of working his way back to England, Johnny decided to fight his own private war against the Hun.

"The Resistance was never too active in North-East Holland. There were too many German troops around and it was too near the frontier. But you should have seen the difference when Johnny got going. He derailed troop trains, ambushed military convoys, attacked staff headquarters - why, once he took on a whole brigade and got away with it! If there had been more like him to harass the Germans at that time, Holland would have been liberated long ago, I tell you."

"But what's his name - his real name I mean? And what does he look like?" I asked.

For once Ritten and Bloot were in agreement. They shook their heads in unison. Ritten said, "I don't know his real name. He was always called Spitfire Johnny - 'Spitfire' because that was the make of plane he was flying and 'Johnny' because - well, because his name was Johnny. I don't have to tell you, Colonel, that most of us Resistance men adopted nicknames and tried to keep our names hidden, in case the Gestapo took reprisals on our families. It didn't pay to go round asking a Resistance man what his name was!"

I nodded and then asked, "But can you describe him? Was he tall, short, dark-haired, fair - what did he look like?"

Ritten replied, "I don't know. I never saw him in the flesh."

"Nor did I," said Bloot.

"But someone must have known him personally," I persisted. "A man doesn't crash a Spitfire in a country, step out and go on fighting

the Germans for over a year without ever meeting a soul. What did he fight with? Where did he get hold of the weapons and ammunition? Where did he stay at night? Who fed him? He must have had some helpers. Who are they - and where are they?"

Bloot gave a dry grin. "Colonel, you are very good at asking questions. Unfortunately, we are not good at giving the answers in this case. Why don't you go to Zutphen? There must be someone there who can tell you more than we can."

"They say that his lieutenant was a beautiful woman," Ritten added. He outlined a rough figure of eight with his cupped hands in the smoky air and whistled. "Why don't you call on her, Colonel?"

"When I get time, I will," I answered. "An unsolved mystery hurts my professional pride."

The conversation turned to other topics and, perhaps an hour later, the gathering broke up.

Two days afterwards, I returned to my duties and for several weeks I had neither the time nor the opportunity to investigate the mystery of Spitfire Johnny. At occasional off-duty moments my mind switched back to the talk at Edinhoven and I wondered just how much of the story was true and how much was rumour. Ritten and Bloot were tough realists who would not easily be taken in by a completely fabricated yarn. Yet, they were both firmly convinced of Spitfire Johnny's existence.

(to be continued)




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