My curse upon your venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang, An' thro' my lug gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance, Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines!
When fevers burn, or argues freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeezes, Our neibor's sympathy can ease us, Wi' pitying moan; But thee - thou hell o' a' diseases - Aye mocks our groan.
Adown my beard the slavers trickle I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, While round the fire the giglets keckle, To see me loup, While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup!
In a' the numerous human dools, Ill hairsts, daft bargains, cutty stools, Or worthy frien's rak'd i' the mools, - Sad sight to see! The tricks o' knaves, or fash o'fools, Thou bear'st the gree!
Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, Where a' the tones o' misery yell, An' ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell, Amang them a'!
O thou grim, mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes o' discord squeel, Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore, a shoe-thick, Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A townmond's toothache!
VoLaNd
13.06.2023
Robert Burns, supier! Ja tak ponimaju libo staro anhlijskij, libo irłandskij. Ono to da, tak ili inačie s obyčnym inhlišiem schodstvo imiejet, no zvučit , imcho, krasivieje.
VoLaNd
13.06.2023
Robert Burns, čiem to napominajet stichi Alfred Lloyd Tennisson. Spasibo.
Common sense
13.06.2023
Božie,chrani Bajdiena i ubieriehi nas ot putinskoj oranžievoj obieźjany!
U Bajdena zabaleŭ zub, jon pieranios sustreču sa Stołtenbierham
Kab pakul tatka chvory, synok nia hareźničaŭ i ničoha nia zhubiŭ, nie zapamiatavaŭ, što adnios raparavać
Cikava, ci buduć chavać dzieda lajalisty hetych samych pucinałukašenak.
*u niekatorych (najprostšych-binarnych) kołach...
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang,
An' thro' my lug gies mony a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance,
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines!
When fevers burn, or argues freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeezes,
Our neibor's sympathy can ease us,
Wi' pitying moan;
But thee - thou hell o' a' diseases -
Aye mocks our groan.
Adown my beard the slavers trickle
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,
While round the fire the giglets keckle,
To see me loup,
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle
Were in their doup!
In a' the numerous human dools,
Ill hairsts, daft bargains, cutty stools,
Or worthy frien's rak'd i' the mools, -
Sad sight to see!
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o'fools,
Thou bear'st the gree!
Where'er that place be priests ca' hell,
Where a' the tones o' misery yell,
An' ranked plagues their numbers tell,
In dreadfu' raw,
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell,
Amang them a'!
O thou grim, mischief-making chiel,
That gars the notes o' discord squeel,
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel
In gore, a shoe-thick,
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal
A townmond's toothache!