Ознакомьтесь с нашей политикой обработки персональных данных

Тихий омут


Нашла весьма интересный живой журнал (вот здесь: seminarist.livejournal.com/?skip=20), там много всего, что стоит почитать. В чпстности такая любопытная вещь, как английские детские песенки викторианской эпохи. Надо же ТАКОЕ детям петь!


My little body's formed by God -
'T is made of flesh and blood;
The slender bones are placed within,
And over all is laid the skin.

My little body is very weak -
A fall or blow my bones might break;
The water soon might stop my breath,
The fire might close my eyes in death...

"Oh, fie, Amelia; I'm ashamed
To hear you quarrel so:
Leave off those naughty tricks, my child -
Go play with your sister, go."

"I sha'n't, mamma, the little girl
May play with whom she can;
And while she lives, she shall not have
My waxen doll again."

"Poor little Betsey Smith, she sits
Day after day alone;
She had a darling sister once,
But now she's dead and gone.

"Betsey was quite a fretful child,
And when she used to play
With pretty little Emeline,
She quarreled every day.

"One day her sister said to her,
'Don't, Betsey, be so cross;
Indeed, I am not well today,
And fear I shall be worse.'

" 'Not well? Oh yes, you're very sick!
I don't believe it's true;
You only want to coax mamma
To get nice things for you.'

"But Emma lingered here a while,
Then closed her eyes and died:
Ah, who can tell the sorrow now,
That fills poor Betsey's mind?

"And now she goes away and sits,
Day after day alone;
She does not want to sing or play,
Since sister Emma's gone."



Tell me, mamma, if I must die
One day, as little baby died,
And look so very pale, and lie
Down in the graveyard by his side?

Shall I leave dear papa and you,
And never see you any more?
Tell me, mamma, if this is true;
I did not know it was before.


'T is true, my love, that you must die;
The God who made you says you must:
And every one of us shall lie,
Like the dear baby in the dust.

These hands, and feet, and busy head
Shall waste and crumble quite away;
But though your body shall be dead,
There is a part which can't decay.


See that heathen mother stand
Where the sacred current flows;
With her own maternal hand
Mid the waves her babe she throws.

Hark! I hear the piteous scream;
Frightful monsters seize their prey,
Or the dark and bloody stream
Bears the struggling child away.

Fainter now, and fainter still,
Breaks the cry upon the ear;
But the mother's heart is steel,
She unmoved that cry can hear.

Send, O send the Bible there,
Let its precepts reach the heart;
She may then her children spare -
Act the mother's tender part.

(Hastings' "Nursery Songs")

2008-01-09 в 18:23 

А как ты себе представляешь наши колыбельные типа:
Баю-баю да люли
Хоть сегодня умри.
Ночью будет мороз -
Снесем на погост...

2008-01-09 в 18:38 

В общем, конечно, да... Но как мне казалось, у нас такого таки меньше. И к тому же у нас это таки пели в деревнях. А английские стишки такого рода бытовали в приличных семьях, среднем классе...



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