Òåêñò îðèãèíàëà íà àíãëèéñêîì ÿçûêå
The Channel Swimmer
Would you hear a Wild tale of adventure Of a hero who tackled the sea, A super-man swimming the ocean, Then hark to the tale of Joe Lee. Our Channel, our own Straits of Dover Had heen swum by an alien lot: Our British-born swimmers had tried it, But that was as far as they’d got. So great was the outcry in England, Darts Players neglected their beer, And the Chanc’Ior proclaimed from the Woolsack As Joe Lee were the chap for this ’ere. For in swimming baths all round the country Joe were noted for daring and strength; Quite often he’d dived in the deep end, And thought nothing of swimming a length. So they wrote him, C/o Workhouse Master, Joe were spending the summer with him, And promised him two Christmas puddings If over the Channel he’d swim. Joe jumped into t’ breach like an ’ero, He said, ”All their fears I’ll relieve, And it isn’t their puddings I’m after, As I told them last Christmas Eve. ”Though many have tackled the Channel From Grisnez to Dover that is, For the honour and glory of England I’ll swim from Dover to Gris-niz.” As soon as his words were made public The newspapers gathered around And offered to give him a pension If he lost both his legs and got drowned. He borrowed a tug from the Navy To swim in the shelter alee, The Wireless folk lent him a wavelength, And the Water Board lent him the sea. His wife strapped a mascot around him, The tears to his eyes gently stole; ’Twere some guiness corks she had collected And stitched to an old camisole. He entered the water at daybreak, A man with a camera stood near, He said ”Hurry up and get in, lad, You’re spoiling my view of the pier.” At last he were in, he were swimming With a beautiful overarm stroke, When the men on the tug saw with horror That the rope he were tied to had broke. Then down came a fog, thick as treacle, The tug looked so distant and dim A voice shouted ”Help, I am drowning,” Joe listened and found it were him. The tug circled round till they found him, They hauled him aboard like a sack, Tied a new tow-rope around him, Smacked him and then threw him back. ’Twere at sunset, or just a bit later, That he realized all wasn’t right, For the tow-rope were trailing behind him And the noose round his waist getting tight. One hasty glance over his shoulder, He saw in a flash what were wrong. The Captain had shut off his engine, Joe were towing the Tugboat along. On and on through the darkness he paddled Till he knew he were very near in By the way he kept bumping the bottom And hitting the stones with his chin. Was it Grisniz he’d reached?... No, it wasn’t, The treacherous tide in its track Had carried him half-way to Blackpool And he had to walk all the way back.
Àíãëèéñêàÿ ïîýçèÿ - http://www.eng-poetry.ru/. Àäðåñ äëÿ ñâÿçè firstname.lastname@example.org