Текст оригинала на английском языке
Oh, how I love the fine old chap Who sits upon my left at meals, And drops his cabbage, in my lap From swooping fork, while he reveals How he, at Hay, in '83, Gave Hamlet's grand so-lil-o-quee. He slops his supper beer o' nights, Or fills my dexter ear with stout, While strenuously he recites, And hurls his lanky limbs about, To prove that every modern cuss Has missed the true Polonius. His oysters down my back he'll throw, Or freely spray me with his soup, When suddenly inspired to show How savage Ingomar should whoop, Or illustrate the proper scream With which to finish 'Denver's Dream.' He throws his turnips everywhere; With breakfast-tea he scalds my legs; I've spuds and carrots in my hair; And oft he's smitten me with eggs. If e'er he shows, with humor grim I'll throw these things all back at him.
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