Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))

* * *

    (To an old air)

‘O I won’t lead a homely life
As father’s Jack and mother’s Jill,
But I will be a fiddler’s wife,
With music mine at will!
Just a little tune,
Another one soon,
As I merrily fling my fill!’

And she became a fiddler’s Dear,
And merry all day she strove to be;
And he played and played afar and near,
But never at home played he
Any little tune
Or late or soon;
And sunk and sad was she!

1. Paying Calls
2. Joys of Memory
3. I Found Her Out There
4. Often When Warring
5. Her Temple

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1946

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