Мем №1538775

MarikaB➦AndM• 08.08.25 01:02

Наверное, из пчел делают. Без использования медоносов:)

Голос Арнора➦Kuzyma• 07.08.25 14:14

Аднако етот мёд будеть не honey а ale. Эль ето.

Капитан Справедливость➦Kuzyma• 07.08.25 14:41

Лайк за то то, что вспомнил. :-) Но это не Маршак, он только переводил. Автор - Роберт Льюис Стивенсон.

Kuzyma ★★➦Капитан Справедливость• 07.08.25 16:17

Одно из любимых произведений школьной программы. До сих пор помню наизусть и иногда читаю внучатам...

Капитан Справедливость➦Kuzyma• 07.08.25 16:38

Я первый раз услышал в "Тимуре и его команде", который 1976г.

SL➦Голос Арнора• 07.08.25 18:53

Mead это - медовуха.

SL➦Капитан Справедливость• 07.08.25 18:55

Не Стивенсон, Роберт Бёрнс (Robert Berns).

Голос Арнора➦SL• 07.08.25 19:35

Чувак вазьми стивенсона в аригинале зачти и бует тобе щастье. Heather Ale.

Голос Арнора➦SL• 07.08.25 19:36

Мля. Вересковый мёд написав стивенсон. Молись святому гуглу.

SL➦Голос Арнора• 07.08.25 20:25

От святого гугла:

R.Burns:

The Picts were small, but they were strong,
And brewed a drink so fine,
From heather bells they'd brew all day long,
And call it Heather Wine.
But the Scots, they fought and drove them all,
Into the mountains high,
And one by one they started to fall,
Beneath the angry sky.
At last there were two left alive,
A father and his son,
The king he caught them, and did contrive,
To learn the secret won.
The king he said, “If you will tell,
The secret of your brew,
I will not burn you, I will not fell,
But let your life ensue.”
The father looked, the father sighed,
And thought upon his land,
Then to the king he softly replied,
With his hand upon his hand.
“My son,” he said, “you know the way,
To brew this drink so fine,
But tell the king you'd rather lay,
Than yield the secret mine.”
The son he looked upon the king,
And saw his angry face,
He would not yield, though death it would bring,
And die in that cold place.
The king he raged, “I'll torture you,
Until the truth is told!”
The son he smiled, “Your threats are few,
My secret I will hold.”
Then did the king, in his great ire,
Order the son to die,
And with his father, put in fire,
Beneath the angry sky.
The king he left, with bitter taste,
His victory was lost,
The secret of the brew, he faced,
By heather bells embossed.
So Heather Ale, the Picts had made,
A drink of mystery,
A secret that they had displayed,
To all eternity.

R.L.Stivenson:

From the bonny bells of heather
They brewed a drink long-syne,
Was sweeter far than honey,
Was stronger far than wine.
They brewed it and they drank it,
And lay in a blessed swound
For days and days together
In their dwellings underground.
There rose a king in Scotland,
A fell man to his foes,
He smote the Picts in battle,
He hunted them like roes.
Over miles of the red mountain
He hunted as they fled,
And strewed the dwarfish bodies
Of the dying and the dead.
Summer came in the country,
Red was the heather bell;
But the manner of the brewing
Was none alive to tell.
In the graves that were like children's
On many a mountain head,
The Brewsters of the Heather
Lay numbered with the dead.
The King in the red moorland
Rode on a summer's day;
And the bees hummed, and the curlews
Cried beside the way.
The king rode, and was angry,
Black was his brow and pale,
To rule in a land of heather
And lack the Heather Ale.
It fortuned that his vassals,
Riding free on the heath,
Came on a stone that was fallen
And vermin hid beneath.
Rudely plucked from their hiding,
Never a word they spoke:
A son and his aged father -
Last of the dwarfish folk.
The king sat high on his charger,
He looked on the little men;
And the dwarfish and swarthy couple
Looked at the king again.
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."
There stood the son and father;
And they looked high and low;
The heather was red around them,
The sea rumbled below.
And up and spoke the father,
Shrill was his voice to hear:
"I have a word in private,
A word for the royal ear.
"Life is dear to the aged,
And honour a little thing;
I would gladly sell the secret,"
Quoth the Pict to the King.
His voice was small as a sparrow's,
And shrill and wonderful clear;
"I would gladly sell my secret,
Only my son I fear.
"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.
Take HIM, I 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."
They took the son and bound him,
Neck and heels in a throng,
And a lad took him and swung him,
And flung him far and strong,
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.
"True was the word I told you:
Only my son I feared;
For I doubt the sapling courage
That goes without the beard.
But now in vain is the torture,
Fire shall never avail;
Here dies in my bosom
The secret of Heather Ale.

То есть, эта легенда обыграна у обоих. Так что мы оба по-своему правы. Справедливости ради, Р.Бёрнс умер раньше, чем Р.Л.Стивенсон родился.

Капитан Справедливость➦SL• 07.08.25 20:44

Обыграна у обоих, но Маршак переводил Стивенсона. ;-)

MarikaB➦Капитан Справедливость• 08.08.25 01:12

У Стивенсона повествование лучше.

SL➦Капитан Справедливость• 08.08.25 05:35

Здесь я, пожалуй, с Вами соглашусь. Ритм точно как у Стивенсона, и местами переведено почти дословно. Мне, правда, прежде чем согласиться, нужно было добраться до своего двухтомника Бёрнса и полистать его, для освежения памяти. Потому что мне казалось, что именно там мне встречался этот перевод Маршака. Его там, по понятным причинам, не оказалось 🙃.

Голос Арнора➦mkz• 07.08.25 14:16

Ну дык он тож bee. Bumble bee.

SL➦mkz• 07.08.25 18:52

Да здесь Bumblebee - это название бренда. Мёд, как написано там, лесной, и собран дикими пчёлами.

MarikaB➦SL• 08.08.25 01:12

Ты хотел сказать - отобран у диких пчел?