Автор: | Киплинг Д. Р. |
Категория: | Стихотворение |
THE PRODIGAL SON
Western Version
Here come I to my own again, |
Fed, forgiven and known again, |
Claimed by bone of my bone again |
And cheered by flesh of my flesh. |
The fatted calf is dressed for me, |
But the husks have greater zest for me. |
I think my pigs will be best for me, |
So I’m off to the Yards afresh. |
I never was very refined, you see, |
(And it weighs on my brother’s mind, you see) |
But there’s no reproach among swine, d’you see, |
For being a bit of a swine. |
So I’m off with wallet and staff to eat |
The bread that is three parts chaff to wheat, |
But glory be! - there’s a laugh to it, |
Which isn’t the case when we dine. |
My father glooms and advises me, |
My brother sulks and despises me, |
And Mother catechises me |
Till I want to go out and swear. |
’s gravity, |
I know that the servants have it I |
Am a monster of moral depravity, |
Amd I’m damned if I think it’s fair! |
I wasted mу substance, I know I did, |
On riotous living, so I did, |
But there’s nothing on record to show I did |
More than my betters have done. |
They talk of the money I spent out there - |
They hint at the pace that I went out there - |
But they all forget I was sent out there |
Alone as a rich man’s son. |
So I was a mark for plunder at once, |
And lost my cash (can you wonder?) at once, |
But I didn’t give up and knock under at once. |
I worked in the Yards, for a spell, |
Where I spent my nights and my days with hogs, |
And shared their milk and maize with hogs, |
Till, I guess, I have learned what pays with hogs |
And - I have that knowledge to sell! |
So back I go to my job again, |
Not so easy to rob again, |
’s around. |
I’m leaving, Pater. Good-bye to you! |
God bless you, Mater! I’ll write to you. ... |
I wouldn’t be impolite to you, |