Clerk Colvill (Child 42)
Баллада про то, почему не следует гулять с бывшей подружкой после свадьбы. Как-то раз клерк Колвилл и его жена (в других вариантах - мать) прогуливались по саду. Супруга попросила Колвилла не ходить к реке, где, как выяснилось позже, он крутил шашни с русалкой. Колвилл, разумеется, насвистел жене в уши обычные в таких обстоятельствах враки - "Не волнуйся, краше тебя я никого не видел," - а сам скок на коня и поехал к злополучному водоему. Там его уже поджидала русалка, с которой он радостно и бодро вступил в половую связь. Но не тут-то было. Когда все закончилось, Колвилл почувствовал жуткую головную боль, на которую сразу же пожаловался подружке. «Будет болеть, пока ты не умрешь!» проворковало ветреное создание. Потом, правда, русалка смягчилась и предложила любовнику отрезать полоску ткани от ее сорочки и обмотать голову - вроде как должно полегчать. Колвилл вытащил пресловутый перочинный нож, отрезал бинт, но когда обмотал голову, боль лишь усилилась. «Что ж так больно стало!» возопил бедняга. Русалка лишь рассмеялась - «Это волчанка» «Так и будет болеть, пока не умрешь!» Взбешенный Колвилл потянулся к мечу, на это раз чтобы лишь злодейку жизни, но девица тут же обратилась в рыбу и скользнула в воду. А несчастный Колвилл, страдая от невыносимой головной боли, вернулся домой, попросил мать расстелить ему постель, завещал свой лук в подарок брату, да с тем и помер. Ибо нефиг.
Arthur Rackham
42A: Clerk Colvill
CLARK COLVEN and his gay ladie,
As they walked to yon garden green,
A belt about her middle gimp,
Which cost Clark Colven crowns fifteen:
‘O hearken weel now, my good lord,
O hearken weel to what I say;
When ye gang to the wall o Stream,
O gang nae neer the well-fared may.’
‘O haud your tongue, my gay ladie,
Tak nae sic care o me;
For I nae saw a fair woman
I like so well as thee.’
He mounted on his berry-brown steed,
And merry, merry rade he on,
Till he came to the wall o Stream,
And there he saw the mermaiden.
‘Ye wash, ye wash, ye bonny may,
And ay’s ye wash your sark o silk:’
‘It’s a’ for you, ye gentle knight,
My skin is whiter than the milk.’
He’s taen her by the milk-white hand,
He’s taen her by the sleeve sae green,
And he’s forgotten his gay ladie,
And away with the fair maiden.
* * * * *
‘Ohon, alas!’ says Clark Colven,
‘And aye sae sair’s I mean my head!’
And merrily leugh the mermaiden,
‘O win on till you be dead.
‘But out ye tak your little pen-knife,
And frae my sark ye shear a gare;
Row that about your lovely head,
And the pain ye’ll never feel nae mair.’
Out he has taen his little pen-knife,
And frae her sark he’s shorn a gare,
Rowed that about his lovely head,
But the pain increased mair and mair.
‘Ohon, alas!’ says Clark Colven,
‘An aye sae sair’s I mean my head!’
And merrily laughd the mermaiden,
‘It will ay be war till ye be dead.’
Then out he drew his trusty blade,
And thought wi it to be her dead,
But she’s become a fish again,
And merrily sprang into the fleed.
He’s mounted on his berry-brown steed,
And dowy, dowy rade he home,
And heavily, heavily lighted down
When to his ladie’s bower-door he came.
‘Oh, mither, mither, mak my bed,
And, gentle ladie, lay me down;
Oh, brither, brither, unbend my bow,
’Twill never be bent by me again.’
His mither she has made his bed,
His gentle ladie laid him down,
His brither he has unbent his bow,
’Twas never bent by him again.
Arthur Rackham
42A: Clerk Colvill
CLARK COLVEN and his gay ladie,
As they walked to yon garden green,
A belt about her middle gimp,
Which cost Clark Colven crowns fifteen:
‘O hearken weel now, my good lord,
O hearken weel to what I say;
When ye gang to the wall o Stream,
O gang nae neer the well-fared may.’
‘O haud your tongue, my gay ladie,
Tak nae sic care o me;
For I nae saw a fair woman
I like so well as thee.’
He mounted on his berry-brown steed,
And merry, merry rade he on,
Till he came to the wall o Stream,
And there he saw the mermaiden.
‘Ye wash, ye wash, ye bonny may,
And ay’s ye wash your sark o silk:’
‘It’s a’ for you, ye gentle knight,
My skin is whiter than the milk.’
He’s taen her by the milk-white hand,
He’s taen her by the sleeve sae green,
And he’s forgotten his gay ladie,
And away with the fair maiden.
* * * * *
‘Ohon, alas!’ says Clark Colven,
‘And aye sae sair’s I mean my head!’
And merrily leugh the mermaiden,
‘O win on till you be dead.
‘But out ye tak your little pen-knife,
And frae my sark ye shear a gare;
Row that about your lovely head,
And the pain ye’ll never feel nae mair.’
Out he has taen his little pen-knife,
And frae her sark he’s shorn a gare,
Rowed that about his lovely head,
But the pain increased mair and mair.
‘Ohon, alas!’ says Clark Colven,
‘An aye sae sair’s I mean my head!’
And merrily laughd the mermaiden,
‘It will ay be war till ye be dead.’
Then out he drew his trusty blade,
And thought wi it to be her dead,
But she’s become a fish again,
And merrily sprang into the fleed.
He’s mounted on his berry-brown steed,
And dowy, dowy rade he home,
And heavily, heavily lighted down
When to his ladie’s bower-door he came.
‘Oh, mither, mither, mak my bed,
And, gentle ladie, lay me down;
Oh, brither, brither, unbend my bow,
’Twill never be bent by me again.’
His mither she has made his bed,
His gentle ladie laid him down,
His brither he has unbent his bow,
’Twas never bent by him again.