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Таковъ удѣлъ въ борьбѣ съ нуждой
Всѣхъ добрыхъ: гордостью людской
И зломъ на смерть осуждены,
Они несуть —

Однихъ небесь не лишены
Кровавый трудь.

Надъ маргариткой плачу я...
Но это доля и моя!

Плугъ смерти надо мной пройдёть
И въ цвѣтѣ лѣтъ

Меня подрѣжеть и замрёть
Мой слабый слѣдь.

John Barleycorn.

Only in Russian is the original not adhered to with this piece. I fancy this is due more to the translator than to the peculiarities of the language. In the first verse he leaves out the dwelling-place of the kings "into the East" and

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This is opposed to the meaning and movement of the ballad, whilst

Гласите жь хоромъ: , Пусть во вѣкъ

Не сохнеть въ кружкахъ дно,
И вѣкъ поить насъ кровью Джонъ
Ячменное-Зерно! "1

besides being unfaithful to the original, very strongly, shall I say selfishly, desires the pleasure of Barleycorn's blood for the translator and his friends and countrymen, and passes over in utter silence the wish which the poet expresses in favour of his native Scotland

"Then let us toast John Barleycorn,

Each man a glass in hand;

And may his great posterity

Ne'er fail in old Scotland!"

John Anderson.

This song is exquisitely translated, and gives the Russian public a true and beautiful version of one of the most touching of Burns's songs; this is also translated anonymously-indeed the best translations are all given in this

way.

ДЖОНУ АНДЕРСОНУ.

Джонъ Андерсонъ, сердечный друг!
Какъ мы сошлись съ тобой,
Былъ гладокъ лобъ твой и какъ смоль
Былъ чоренъ волось твой.

1 Sing out in chorus, let the bottom
Of our tankards never be dry for ages,
And let us for ever drink the blood of
John Barleycorn.

Теперь морщины по лицу

И снѣгъ житейскихъ вьюгъ

Въ твоихъ кудряхъ; но- Богъ храни Тебя, сердечный друг!

Джонъ Андерсонъ, сердечный друг!
Мы вмѣстѣ въ гору шли,

И сколько мы счастливыхъ дней
Другъ съ другомъ провели !
Теперь намъ подъ гору плестись;
Но мы, рука съ рукой,

Пойдёмъ - и вмѣстѣ подъ горой

Заснёмъ, сердечный мой!

FRENCH.

IN coming to the French versions, we find a different mode of translation. Most of those I have already noticed are cast, or are attempted to be cast, in the metre which Burns adopted, and a departure from it, as will be seen in the French and Italian translations, shows how much the beauty of the original is lost by the want of the original mould. Nor is this to be wondered at, for Burns himself shows how much the music to which he generally wrote his songs moulded the words and versification. "Until I am complete master," he says, "of a tune in my own singing (such as it is), I can never compose for it"; and this sentiment was evidently in Carlyle's mind when, writing of Mr. Heintze's translation, he said, "Perhaps the one counsel I would venture to give Herr Heintze were this, in all cases to learn the tune first." Naturally, more than this is wanted-the appreciation of the force of the words, the spirit of the piece; but the "not having learned the tune" is painfully apparent in the French and Italian versions.

There are several translations and imitations of Burns in French-"Morceaux Choisis de Robert Burns, traduction par MM. J. Aytoun et J. B. Mesnard, edition Ferra du Paris, 1826"; another by Léon de Wailly, published in two editions simultaneously in 1843 by A. Delahuys (Paris) and

Charpentier (Paris); and a prose version by Richard de la Madelaine, printed by Cagniard at Rouen, in 1874. M. Léon Valadi has published a few translations and imitations, some, such as "John Anderson," being not without merit; and Leconte de Lisle's imitations are well known. They are all more imitations than translations. I give as an example the

Rigs o' Barley.

ANNIE.

LECONTE DE Lisle,

La lune n'était pas ternie,
Le ciel était tout étoilé,
Et moi, j'allai trouver Annie
Dans les sillons d'orge et de blé,
Oh! les sillons d'orge et de blé !

Le cœur de ma chère maîtresse
Etait étrangement troublé,
Je baisai le bout de sa tresse,
Dans les sillons d'orge et de blé,
Oh! les sillons d'orge et de blé.

Que sa chevelure était fine!
Qu'un baiser est vite envolé !
Je la pressai sur ma poitrine,
Dans les sillons d'orge et de blé,
Oh! les sillons d'orge et de blé !

Notre ivresse était infinie,

Et nul de nous n'avait parlé,
Oh! la douce nuit, chère Annie,

Dans les sillons d'orge et de blé
Oh! les sillons d'orge et de blé.

This piece is perhaps nearer to the original than any of this writer's other efforts. They lack the suppleness and precision of Burns; the freshness and charm of life which

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