Ода палачам

Кресты, как грибы, проросли на погосте,

На стоны голодных ответ наш жесток:

За ломку машины – ломаются кости

И ценятся люди дешевле чулок.

Но если так было, то может быть стоит,

Чтоб каждому право быть сытым вернуть:

У тех, кто голодному дверь не откроет,

Покрепче на шее петлю затянуть.

Оригинал:

Oh well done Lord E–n! and better Lord R–r!

Britannia must prosper with councils like yours;

Hawkesbury, help you to guide her,

Whose remedy only must kill ere it cures:

Those villains, the Weavers, are all grown refractory,

Asking some succour for Charity's sake –

So hang them in clusters round each Manufactory,

That will at once put an end to mistake.

The rascals, perhaps, may betake them to robbing,

The dogs to be sure have got nothing to eat –

So if we can hang them for breaking a bobbin,

'Twill save all the Government's money and meat:

Men are more easily made than machinery –

Stockings fetch better prices than lives –

Gibbets on Sherwood will heighten the scenery,

Showing how Commerce, how Liberty thrives!

Justice is now in pursuit of the wretches,

Grenadiers, Volunteers, Bow-street Police,

Twenty-two Regiments, a score of Jack Ketches,

Three of the Quorum and two of the Peace;

Some Lords, to be sure,  would have summoned the Judges,

To take their opinion, but that they ne'er shall,

For LIVERPOOL such a concession begrudges,

So now they're condemned by no Judges at all.

Some folks for certain have thought it was shocking,

When Famine appeals, and when Poverty groans,

That life should be valued at less than a stocking,

And breaking of frames lead to breaking of bones.

If it should prove so, I trust, by this token,

(And who will refuse to partake in the hope?)

That the frames of the fools

may be first to be broken,

Who, when asked for a remedy, sent down a rope.

***

Эпитафия

Строки, написанные в альбоме, на Мальте

Как на могильном камне лица,

На миг задерживают нас,

Так у читающих страницу,

Пускай замрёт на строчке глаз.

Когда прочтёшь случайно имя,

Когда ни будь, через года,

Подумай: автор здесь не зримо,

Здесь его сердце навсегда.

Lines written in an album, at Malta – В альбом. Мальта.