Сказка о Кабанчике

Маленькие птенчики

Прячут преступления

В саквояжи бедные,

И на кутежах

Пьют благословенные,

А друзья их съедены.

Пьют благословенные,

Пьют, но и дрожат.

Маленькие птенчики –

В почестях и золоте.

Звонит, однако, колокол, 

Вот и пробил час.

И бледнеют птенчики,

Морщатся от холода...

А ваш слуга покорный

Завершил рассказ.

Оригинал на английском (1893)

Pig-Tale

Little Birds are dining

Warily and well,

Hid in mossy cell:

Hid, I say, by waiters

Gorgeous in their gaiters –

I've a Tale to tell.

Little Birds are feeding

Justices with jam,

Rich in frizzled ham:

Rich, I say, in oysters

Haunting shady cloisters –

That is what I am.

Little Birds are teaching

Tigresses to smile,

Innocent of guile:

Smile, I say, not smirkle –

Mouth a semicircle,

That's the proper style.

Little Birds are sleeping

All among the pins,

Where the loser wins:

Where, I say, he sneezes

When and how he pleases –

So the Tale begins.

There was a Pig that sat alone

Beside a ruined Pump:

By day and night he made his moan –

It would have stirred a heart of stone

To see him wring his hoofs and groan,

Because he could not jump.

A certain Camel heard him shout –

A Camel with a hump.

“Oh, is it Grief, or is it Gout?

What is this bellowing about?”

That Pig replied, with quivering snout,

“Because I cannot jump!”

That Camel scanned him, dreamy-eyed.

“Methinks you are too plump.

I never knew a Pig so wide –

That wobbled so from side to side –

Who could, however much he tried,

Do such a thing as jump!

Yet mark those trees, two miles away,

All clustered in a clump:

If you could trot there twice a day,

Nor ever pause for rest or play,

In the far future – Who can say? –

You may be fit to jump”.

That Camel passed, and left him there,

Beside the ruined Pump.

Oh, horrid was that Pig's despair!

His shrieks of anguish filled the air.

He wrung his hoofs, he rent his hair,

Because he could not jump.

There was a Frog that wandered by –

A sleek and shining lump:

Inspected him with fishy eye,

And said: “O Pig, what makes you cry?”

And bitter was that Pig's reply:

“Because I cannot jump!”

That Frog he grinned a grin of glee,

And hit his chest a thump.

“O Pig, – he said, – be ruled by me,

And you shall see what you shall see.

This minute, for a trifling fee,

I'll teach you how to jump!

You may be faint from many a fall,

And bruised by many a bump:

But, if you persevere through all,

And practise first on something small,

Concluding with a ten-foot wall,

You'll find that you can jump!”

That Pig looked up with joyful start:

“Oh Frog, you are a trump!

Your words have healed my inward smart –

Come, name your fee and do your part:

Bring comfort to a broken heart,

By teaching me to jump!”

“My fee shall be a mutton-chop,

My goal this ruined Pump.

Observe with what an airy flop

I plant myself upon the top!

Now bend your knees and take a hop,

For that's the way to jump!”

Uprose that Pig, and rushed, full whack,

Against the ruined Pump:

Rolled over like an empty sack,

And settled down upon his back,

While all his bones at once went “Crack!”

It was a fatal jump.

Little Birds are writing

Interesting books,

To be read by cooks:

Read, I say, not roasted –

Letterpress, when toasted,

Loses its good looks.

Little Birds are playing

Bagpipes on the shore,

Where the tourists snore:

“Thanks! – they cry. – Tis thrilling!

Take, oh take this shilling!

Let us have no more!”

Little Birds are bathing

Crocodiles in cream,

Like a happy dream:

Like, but not so lasting –

Crocodiles, when fasting,

Are not all they seem!

That Camel passed, as Day grew dim

Around the ruined Pump.

“O broken heart! O broken limb!

It needs, – that Camel said to him, –

Something more fairy-like and slim,

To execute a jump!”

That Pig lay still as any stone,

And could not stir a stump:

Nor ever, if the truth were known,

Was he again observed to moan,

Nor ever wring his hoofs and groan,

Because he could not jump.

That Frog made no remark, for he

Was dismal as a dump:

He knew the consequence must be

That he would never get his fee –

And still he sits, in miserie,

Upon that ruined Pump!

Little Birds are choking

Baronets with bun,

Taught to fire a gun:

Taught, I say, to splinter

Salmon in the winter–

Merely for the fun.

Little Birds are hiding

Crimes in carpet-bags,

Blessed by happy stags:

Blessed, I say, though beaten –

Since our friends are eaten

When the memory flags.

Little Birds are tasting

Gratitude and gold,

Pale with sudden cold:

Pale, I say, and wrinkled –

When the bells have tinkled,

And the Tale is told.