Is my bonny laddie gone?”
Old Song.
One day, as I was going by
That part of Holborn christened High,
I heard a loud and sodden1 cry,
That chill’d my very blood;
And lo! from out a dirty alley2,
Where pigs and Irish wont3 to rally,
I saw a crazy woman sally,
Bedaub’d with grease and mud.
She turn’d her East, she turn’d her West,
Staring like Pythoness possest,
With streaming hair and heaving breast,
As one stark4 mad with grief.
This way and that she wildly ran,
Jostling with woman and with man —
Her right hand held a frying pan,
The left a lump of beef.
At last her frenzy5 seemed to reach
A point just capable of speech,
And with a tone almost a screech6,
As wild as ocean bird’s,
Or female Banter7 mov’d to preach,
She gave her “sorrow-words.”
“O Lord! O dear, my heart will break, I shall
go stick stark staring wild!
Has ever a one seen anything about the streets
like a crying lost-looking child?
Lawk help me, I don’t know where to look, or to
run, if I only knew which way —
A Child as is lost about London Streets, and especially
Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay.
I am all in a quiver — get out of my sight, do, you
wretch8, you little Kitty M’Nab!
You promised to have half an eye to him, you
know you did, you dirty deceitful young drab.
The last time as ever I see him, poor thing;
was with my own blessed Motherly eyes,
Sitting as good as gold in the gutter9,
a-playing at making little dirt pies.
I wonder he left the court where he was better off
than all the other young boys,
With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells,
and a dead kitten by way of toys.
When his father comes home, and he always comes home
as sure as ever the clock strikes one,
He’ll be rampant10, he will, at his child being lost;
and the beef and the inguns not done!
La bless you, good folks, mind your own consarns,
and don’t be making a mob in the street;
O Sergeant11 M’Farlane! you have not come across
my poor little boy, have you, in your beat?
Do, good people, move on! don’t stand staring at me
like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs;
Saints forbid! but he’s p’r’aps been inviggled
away up a court for the sake of his clothes
He’d a very good jacket, for certain,
for I bought it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair;
And his trowsers considering not very much patch’d,
and red plush, they was once his Father’
His shirt, it’s very lucky I’d got washing in the tub,
or that might have gone with the rest
But he’d got on a very good pinafore
with only two slits12 and a burn on the breast.
He’d a goodish sort of hat, If the crown was sew’d in,
and not quite so much jagg’d at the brim,
With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot,
and not a fit, and, you’ll know by that if it’s him.
Except being so well dress’d, my mind would misgive13,
some old beggar woman in want of an orphan14,
Had borrow’d the child to go a begging with,
but I’d rather see him laid out in his coffin15!
Do, good people, move on, such a rabble16 of boys!
I’ll break every bone of ’em I come near,
Go home — you’re spilling the porter — go home —
Tommy Jones, go along home with your beer.
This day is the sorrowfullest day of my life,
ever since my name was Betty Morgan,
Them vile17 Savoyards! they lost him once before
all along of following a Monkey and an Organ:
O my Billy — my head will turn right round — if
he’s got kiddynapp’d with them Italians,
They’ll make him a plaster parish image boy,
they will, the outlandish tatterdemallions.
Billy — where are you, Billy? — I’m as hoarse18 as a crow,
with screaming for ye, you young sorrow!
And shan’t have half a voice, no more I shan’t,
for crying fresh herrings to-morrow.
O Billy, you’re bursting my heart in two, and my
life won’t be of no more vally,
If I’m to see other folk’s darlins, and none of
mine, playing like angels in our alley,
And what shall I do but cry out my eyes, when I
looks at the old three-legged chair,
As Billy used to make coaches and horses of, and
there ain’t no Billy there!
I would run all the wide world over to find him,
if I only know’d where to run,
Little Murphy, now I remember, was once lost
for a month through stealing a penny bun —
The Lord forbid of any child of mine!
I think it would kill me raily,
To find my Bill holdin up his little
innocent hand at the Old Bailey.
For though I say it as oughtn’t, yet I will say,
you may search for miles and mileses
And not find one better brought up,
and more pretty behaved, from one end to t’other
of St. Giles’s.
And if I called him a beauty, it’s no lie, but only as a
Mother ought to speak;
You never set eyes on a more handsomer face,
only it hasn’t been washed for a week;
As for hair, tho’ it’s red, it’s the most nicest hair
when I’ve time to just show it the comb;
I’ll owe ’em five pounds, and a blessing19 besides,
as will only bring him safe and sound home.
He’s blue eyes, and not to be call’d a squint20,
though a little cast he’s certainly got;
And his nose is still a good un, tho’ the bridge is
broke, by his falling on a pewter pint21 pot;
He’s got the most elegant wide mouth in the
world, and very large teeth for his age;
And quite as fit as Mrs. Murdockson’s child to
play Cupid on the Drury Lane Stage.
And then he has got such dear winning ways —
but O, I never never shall see him no more!
O dear! to think of losing him just after nussing
him back from death’s door!
Only the very last month when the windfalls,
hang ’em, was at twenty a penny!
And the threepence he’d got by grottoing was
spent in plums, and sixty for a child is too many.
And the Cholera22 man came and whitewash’d us
all and, drat him, made a seize of our hog23 —
It’s no use to send the Crier to cry him about,
he’s such a blunderin drunken old dog;
The last time he was fetched to find a lost child,
he was guzzling24 with his bell at the Crown,
And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a
distracted Mother and Father about Town.
Billy — where are you, Billy, I say? come, Billy,
come home, to your best of Mothers!
I’m scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they
drive so, they’d run over their own Sisters and Brothers.
Or may be he’s stole by some chimbly sweeping25
wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and what not,
And be poked26 up behind with a picked pointed27
pole, when the soot28 has ketch’d, and the chimbly’s red hot.
Oh I’d give the whole wide world, if the world
was mine, to clap my two longin eyes on his face,
For he’s my darlin of darlins, and if he don’t soon
come back, you’ll see me drop stone dead on the place.
I only wish I’d got him safe in these two Motherly
arms, and wouldn’t I hug him and kiss him!
Lauk! I never knew what a precious he was —
but a child don’t not feel like a child till you miss him.
Why, there he is! Punch and Judy hunting, the
young wretch, it’s that Billy as sartin as sin!
But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair,
and I’m blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin!
点击收听单词发音
1 sodden | |
adj.浑身湿透的;v.使浸透;使呆头呆脑 | |
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2 alley | |
n.小巷,胡同;小径,小路 | |
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3 wont | |
adj.习惯于;v.习惯;n.习惯 | |
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4 stark | |
adj.荒凉的;严酷的;完全的;adv.完全地 | |
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5 frenzy | |
n.疯狂,狂热,极度的激动 | |
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6 screech | |
n./v.尖叫;(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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7 banter | |
n.嘲弄,戏谑;v.取笑,逗弄,开玩笑 | |
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8 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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9 gutter | |
n.沟,街沟,水槽,檐槽,贫民窟 | |
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10 rampant | |
adj.(植物)蔓生的;狂暴的,无约束的 | |
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11 sergeant | |
n.警官,中士 | |
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12 slits | |
n.狭长的口子,裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开,撕开( slit的第三人称单数 );在…上开狭长口子 | |
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13 misgive | |
v.使担心 | |
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14 orphan | |
n.孤儿;adj.无父母的 | |
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15 coffin | |
n.棺材,灵柩 | |
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16 rabble | |
n.乌合之众,暴民;下等人 | |
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17 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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18 hoarse | |
adj.嘶哑的,沙哑的 | |
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19 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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20 squint | |
v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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21 pint | |
n.品脱 | |
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22 cholera | |
n.霍乱 | |
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23 hog | |
n.猪;馋嘴贪吃的人;vt.把…占为己有,独占 | |
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24 guzzling | |
v.狂吃暴饮,大吃大喝( guzzle的现在分词 ) | |
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25 sweeping | |
adj.范围广大的,一扫无遗的 | |
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26 poked | |
v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 );戳出;拨弄;与(某人)性交 | |
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27 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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28 soot | |
n.煤烟,烟尘;vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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