Томас Рид: Всадник без головы - английский и русский параллельные тексты

asleep! What do you mean, Phelim?" "What div I

mane? Fwhy, that wheniver yez close your eyes an think yez are sleepin', ye begin palaverin', as if a preast was confessin' ye!" "Ah! Is that so? What have you heard me say?" "Not much, masther, that I cud make sinse out av. Yez be always tryin' to pronounce a big name that appares to have no indin', though it begins wid a point!" "A name! What name?" "Sowl! I kyan't till ye exakly. It's too long for me to remimber, seein' that my edicashun was intirely neglicted. But there's another name that yez phut before it; an that I kyan tell ye. It's a wuman's name, though it's not common in the owld counthry. It's Looaze that ye say, Masther Maurice; an then comes the point." "Ah!" interrupted the young Irishman, evidently not caring to converse longer on the subject. "Some name I may have heard-somewhere, accidentally. One does have such strange ideas in dreams!" "Trath! yez spake the truth there; for in your drames, masther, ye talk about a purty girl lookin' out av a carriage wid curtains to it, an tellin' her to close them agaynst some danger that yez are going to save her from." "I wonder what puts such nonsense into my head?" "I wondher meself," rejoined Phelim, fixing his eyes upon his young master with a stealthy but scrutinising look. "Shure," he continued, "if I may make bowld to axe the quistyun-shure, Masther Maurice, yez haven't been makin' a Judy Fitzsummon's mother av yerself, an fallin' in love wid wan of these Yankee weemen out hare? Och an-an-ee! that wud be a misforthune; an thwat wud she say-the purty colleen wid the goodlen hair an blue eyes, that lives not twinty miles from Ballyballagh?" "Poh, poh! Phelim! you're taking leave of your senses, I fear." "Trath, masther, I aren't; but I know somethin' I wud like to take lave av." "What is that? Not me, I hope?" "You, alannah? Niver! It's Tixas I mane. I'd like to take lave of that; an you goin' along wid me back to the owld sad. Arrah, now, fhwat's the use av yer stayin' here, wastin' the best part av yer days in doin' nothin'? Shure yez don't make more than a bare livin' by the horse-catchin'; an if yez did, what mathers it? Yer owld aunt at Castle Ballagh can't howld out much longer; an when she's did, the bewtiful demane 'll be yours, spite av the dhirty way she's thratin' ye. Shure the property's got a tail to it; an not a mother's son av them can kape ye out av it!" "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the young Irishman: "you're quite a lawyer, Phelim. What a first-rate attorney you'd have made!

-- Глупости, дружок! Тебе всегда что-нибудь мерещится.