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William Makepeace Thackeray (1811–1863)
I am not disposed to say that Thackeray will hold a high place among English poets. He would have been the first to ridicule such an assumption made on his behalf. But I think that his verses will be more popular than those of many highly reputed poets, and that as years roll on they will gain rather than lose in public estimation. Anthony Trollope
Die Leiden des junges Werthers Johann Wolfgang von Goethe 1749-1832
Sorrows of young Werther Werther had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter; Would you know how first he met her? She was cutting bread and butter. Charlotte was a married lady, And a moral man was Werther, And, for all the wealth of Indies, Would do nothing for to hurt her. So he sighed and pined and ogled, And his passion boiled and bubbled, Till he blew his silly brains out, And no more was by it troubled. Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person, Went on cutting bread and butter.
The Ballad of Bouillabaisse A street there is in Paris famous,For which no rhyme our language yields,Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is -The New Street of the Little Fields;And here's an inn, not rich and splendid,But still in comfortable case;The which in youth I oft attended,To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is, -A sort of soup, or broth, or brewOr hotch-potch of all sorts of fishes,That Greenwich never could outdo;Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron,Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace:All these you eat at Terre's tavern,In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis;And true philosophers, methinks,Who love all sorts of natural beauties,Should love good victuals and good drinks.And Cordelier or BenedictineMight gladly sure his lot embrace,Nor find a fast-day too afflictingWhich served him up a Bouillabaisse.I wonder if the house still there is?Yes, here the lamp is, as before;The smiling red-cheeked ecaillere isStill opening oysters at the door.Is Terre still alive and able?I recollect his droll grimace;He'd come and smile before your table,And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.We enter,--nothing's changed or older."How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray?"The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder,--"Monsieur is dead this many a day.""It is the lot of saint and sinner; So honest Terre's run his race.""What will Monsieur require for dinner?""Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?"
"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer,"Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il?""Tell me a good one.""That I can, sir: The chambertin with yellow seal.""So Terre's gone," I say, and sink inMy old accustom'd corner-place;"He's done with feasting and with drinking,With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse."My old accustomed corner here is,The table still is in the nook;Ah! vanish'd many a busy year isThis well-known chair since last I took.When first I saw ye, cari luoghi,I'd scarce a beard upon my face,And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.Where are you, old companions trusty,Of early days here met to dine?Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty;I'll pledge them in the good old wine.The kind old voices and old facesMy memory can quick retrace;Around the board they take their places,And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.
There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage;There's laughing Tom is laughing yet;There's brave Augustus drives his carriage;There's poor old Fred in the Gazette;O'er James's head the grass is growing.Good Lord! the world has wagged apaceSince here we set the claret flowing,And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse..Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!I mind me of a time that's gone,When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,In this same place,--but not alone.A fair young face was nestled near me,A dear, dear face looked fondly up,And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me!There's no one now to share my cup. * * * * * * *I drink it as the Fates ordain it.Come fill it, and have done with rhymes;Fill up the lonely glass, and drain itIn memory of dear old times.Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is;And sit you down and say your graceWith thankful heart, whate'er the meal is.Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse.
The Ballad of BouillabaisseПеревод В.К.Житомирского