Презентация к творческому вечеру, посвященному Р.Л.Стивенсону

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  (вступление)

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  Ро́берт Лью́ис Сти́венсон (1850-1894)

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  From the bonny bells of heather They brewed a drink long-syne, Was sweeter far then honey, Was stronger far than wine.

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  They brewed it and they drank it, And lay in a blessed swound For days and days together In their dwellings underground.

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  There rose a king in Scotland, A fell man to his foes,

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  He smote the Picts in battle, He hunted them like roes

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  Over miles of the red mountain He hunted as they fled,, And strewed the dwarfish bodies Of the dying and the dead

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  Summer came in the country, Red was the heather bell; But the manner of the brewing Was none alive to tell.

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  In graves that were like children’s On many a mountain head, The Brewsters of the Heather Lay numbered with the dead.

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  The king in the red moorland Rode on a summer’s day;

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  And the bees hummed, and the curlews Cried beside the way.

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  The king rode, and was angry, Black was his brow and pale, To rule in a land of heather And lack the Heather Ale.

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  It fortuned that his vassals, Riding free on the heath, Came on a stone that was fallen And vermin hid beneath.

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  Rudely plucked from their hiding, Never a word they spoke

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  A son and his aged father — Last of the dwarfish folk.

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  The king sat high on his charger, He looked on the little men; And the dwarfish and swarthy couple Looked at the king again.

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  Down by the shore he had them; And there on the giddy brink — «I will give you life, ye vermin, For the secret of the drink.»

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  There stood the son and father, And they looked high and low; The heather was red around them, The sea rumbled below.

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  And up and spoke the father, Shrill was his voice to hear: «I have a word in private, A word for the royal ear.

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  «Life is dear to the aged, And honour a little thing; I would gladly sell the secret,» Quoth the Pict to the king.

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  His voice was small as a sparrow’s, And shrill and wonderful clear: «I would gladly sell my secret, Only my son I fear.

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  «For life is a little matter, And death is nought to the young; And I dare not sell my honour Under the eye of my son.

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  Take him, O king, and bind him, And cast him far in the deep; And it’s I will tell the secret That I have sworn to keep.»

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  They took the son and bound him, Neck and heels in a thong, And a lad took him and swung him, And flung him far and strong,

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  And the sea swallowed his body, Like that of a child of ten; — And there on the cliff stood the father, Last of the dwarfish men.

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  «True was the word I told you: Only my son I feared; For I doubt the sapling courage That goes without the beard.

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  But now in vain is the torture, Fire shall never avail: Here dies in my bosom The secret of Heather Ale.»

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  Thank you for your attention!