John Masefield (Джон Мейсфилд)

Bill

He lay dead on the cluttered deck and stared at the cold skies,
With never a friend to mourn for him nor a hand to close his eyes:
‘Bill, he’s dead,’ was all they said; ‘he’s dead, ’n’ there he lies.’

The mate came forrard at seven bells and spat across the rail:
‘Just lash him up wi’ some holystone in a clout o’ rotten sail,
’N’, rot ye, get a gait on ye, ye’re slower’n a bloody snail!’

When the rising moon was a copper disc and the sea was a strip of steel,
We dumped him down to the swaying weeds ten fathom beneath the keel.
‘It’s rough about Bill,’ the fo’c’s’le said, ‘we’ll have to stand his wheel.’

1. Fever Ship
2. Not of the Princes and Prelates with Periwigged Charioteers
3. Burial Party
4. The Yarn of the ‘Loch Achray’
5. Sing a Song o’ Shipwreck

Распечатать (To print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1299

Последние стихотворения

To English version