הבלדה על תום הכן

תרגום: מ. גנן

 

תֹּם הַכֵּן עַל חוֹף פְּרָזוֹת

יָשַׁב, הִבִּיט בַּנֵּס:

כִּי שָׁם רָאָה אִשָּׁה נָאָה

עַל רֶכֶשׁ קַל מִתַּחַת עָץ.     (רכש=סוס).

 

מֶשִׁי דֶּשֶׁא שִׂמְלָתָהּ

וְאַרְגָּמָן סוּתָהּ;

עַל כָּל תַּלְתַּל רַעְמַת סוּסָהּ

תְּלוּיִים זוֹגִין תִּשְׁעָה.

 

תֹּם הַכֵּן הֵסִיר מִגְבַּעַת

וְעַל בִּרְכָּיו שָׁחָה:

"בָּרוּךְ בּוֹאֵךְ, הִנָּךְ שְׁכִינָה

שֶׁאֵין בְּכָאן מָשְׁלָהּ".

 

"לֹא, אָה   לֹא, תֹּם", הִיא אָמְרָה,

"לֹא שֵׁם זֶה לִי יֵאוֹת,

אֲנִי  הֵן רַק מַלְכַּת פֵיוֹת

אוֹתְךָ בָּאָה לִרְאוֹת".

 

"שְׁמַע, הַסְכֵּת תֹּם", – הִיא אָמְרָה,

הַסְכֵּת וּשְׁמַע דְּבָרַי:

לְךָ אֶהֱיֶה כֻּלִּי  עַד תֹּם,

אִם אַךְ תָּעֵז לִשַּׁק שְׂפָתַי".

 

"שֹׁמּוּ שָׁמַיִם, שֹׁד וָשֶׁבֶר!!!

הֵן וַדַּאי אָעֵז!

 

אָז נָשַׁק לָהּ עַל שְׂפָתֶיהָ

שָׁם תַּחַת הָעֵץ.

 

”עַתָּה אַתָּה שַׁיָּךְ רַק לִי

וְעִמִּי אַתָּה תָּבוֹא!

יָמִים שִׁבְעָה תַּעֲבֹד עִמִּי

בְּשֶׁמֶשׁ, שֶׁלֶג, כְּפוֹר".

 

יָד נָתְנָה הִיא לַתֹּם הַכֵּן,

אַף הִיא כְּבָר עַל הַסּוּס;

בָּרֶסֶן מְשֹׁךְ, הַסּוּס יִצְהַל,

יֵיטִיב מֵרוּחַ טוּס.

 

וְכָךְ רָכְבוּ, רָכְבוּ עַד אָן

הָרֶכֶשׁ טָס, הִקְדִּים לָרוּחַ,

עַד אֶל אֶרֶץ-אֵין-אִישׁ שָׁם

בָּאוּ, יָשְׁבוּ לָנוּחַ.

 

"שְׁכַב לְיָדִי, תּוֹמַס הַכֵּן,

וְעַל בִּרְכַּי  הַרְכֵּן הָרֹאשׁ;

שְׁהֵה מְעַט,  וְאַרְאֲךָ

אַל מוּל מִשָּׁם דְּרָכִים שָׁלֹשׁ:

 

הֲתִרְאֶה  שָׁם אֶת הַשְּׁבִיל הַצַּר,

מָלֵא בִּסְבַךְ קוֹצִים?

זוֹ דֶּרֶךְ יֹשֶׁר וֶאֱמֶת,

הַשּׁוֹאֲלִים לָהּ – מְעַטִּים".

 

 

"וּרְאֵה שָׁם: זוֹ דֶּרֶךְ רָאשִׁית.

אוֹמְרִים: לָעֵדֶן; בֵּין בִּצּוֹת…

זֹאת הִיא מְסִלַּת רִשְׁעוּת

אַךְ לֹא הַכֹּל יוֹדוּ בְּזֹאת".

 

"וּרְאֵה שָׁם אֶת הַשְּׁבִיל הַטּוֹב

עוֹלֶה אֶל הַר יָרֹק;

זוֹ דֶּרֶךְ אֶל קֵן הַפֵיוֹת

מָקוֹם עוֹד דַּי רָחוֹק".

 

אַךְ זֹאת זְכֹר נָא תֹּם הֵיטֵב:

אֶת פִּיךָ סְתֹם מַה  שֶּׁלֹּא  תִּרְאֶה!

כִּי קְסָמִים שְׁלֹשָׁה וּבְרִיחִים שְׁלֹשָׁה

יֻכּוּ עָפָר אִם תִּתְפַּתֶּה".

 

וְכָךְ רָכְבוּ יוֹמָם וָלֵיל

וְהָלְאָה, הָלְאָה  עוֹד:

חָמָה אַף סַהַר לֹא שְׁזָפוּם

יָם הִקִּיפָם וּנְהָרוֹת.

 

חָשׁוּךְ הָיָה הַלֵּיל כִּבְרֶחֶם

לֹא כָּל כּוֹכָב יָהֵל  שָׁם;

הֵם עָבְרוּ בִּנְהַר הַדָּם עַד בֶּרֶךְ

כִּי שָׁם מַעְיַן כָּל דָּם.

 

בַּסּוֹף הֵם בָּאוּ אֶל מַטָּע

וְהִיא  קָטְפָה  תַּפּוּחַ:

"זֶה שְׂכָרְךָ עַל עֲמָלְךָ,  תֹּם,

עַד הַיּוֹם יָפוּחַ".

 

"תַּפּוּחַ זֶה, דַּע, רָב כֹּחוֹ,

אֶת פִּיךָ לֹא יִתֵּן  שַׁקֵּר;

שִׁכּוֹר-מַרְזֵחַ כִּי תָּבוֹא

לֹא תֹּאמַר: מִמָּקוֹם אַחֵר".

 

"אַךְ לִי לְשׁוֹנִי!" – אָמַר תֹּם הַכֵּן,

לִי שַׁי נָאֶה אָרִית!

לֹא אוּכַל לִמְכֹּר, לִקְנוֹת

בַּשּׁוּק אוֹ בַּיָרִיד!"

 

"לֹא אוּכַל דַּבֵּר אֶת  אִישׁ,

נָסִיךְ, רוֹזֵן אוֹ גְּבֶרֶת!"

"הַסְכֵּת, עַתָּה!" – הִיא  אָמְרָה

"כִּי לֹא יִהְיֶה  אַחֶרֶת".

 

וְהוּא קָנָה לָהּ כְּתֹנֶת מֶשִׁי

וְלוֹ  זוּג נַעַל מֵעוֹר קְטִיפָה,

וְעַד עָבְרוּ כָּל אוֹתָן שָׁנִים

וּמָלְאוּ יָמָיו, שָׁמַר צִלָּהּ.

 

Thomas the Rhymer

 
TRUE Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;

A ferlie he spied wi’ his e’e;

And there he saw a ladye bright

Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.

 

 
Her skirt was o’ the grass-green silk,

Her mantle o’ the velvet fyne;

At ilka tett o’ her horse’s mane                                                                                                                                          

Hung fifty siller bells and nine.                                                                                                                                          

                                                                                                                                                                                                 

 
True Thomas he pu’d aff his cap,

And louted low down on his knee:

‘Hail to thee, Mary, Queen of Heaven!

For thy peer on earth could never be.’

 

 

 

 
‘O no, O no, Thomas,’ she said,                                                                                                                                         

‘That name does not belang to me;                                                                                                                                   

I’m but the Queen o’ fair Elfland,                                                                                                                                        15

That am hither come to visit thee.                                                                                                                                      

                                                                                                                                                                                                 

 
‘Harp and carp, Thomas,’ she said;                                                                                                                                   

‘Harp and carp along wi’ me;                                                                                                                                              

And if ye dare to kiss my lips,                                                                                                                                            

Sure of your bodie I will be.’                                                                                                                                                20

                                                                                                                                                                                                 

VI 
‘Betide me weal, betide me woe,                                                                                                                                         

That weird shall never daunten me’                                                                                                                                  

Syne he has kiss’d her rosy lips,                                                                                                                                       

All underneath the Eildon Tree.                                                                                                                                         

                                                                                                                                                                                                 

 
‘Now ye maun go wi’ me,’ she said,                                                                                                                                   25

‘True Thomas, ye maun go wi’ me;                                                                                                                                   

And ye maun serve me seven years,                                                                                                                                 

Thro’ weal or woe as may chance to be.’                                                                                                                         

                  
She’s mounted on her milk-white steed,                                                                                                                           

She’s ta’en true Thomas up behind;                                                                                                                                  30

And aye, whene’er her bridle rang,                                                                                                                                   

The steed gaed swifter than the wind.                                                                                                                              

                                                                                                                                                                                                 

IX O they rade on, and farther on,                                                                                                                                          

The steed gaed swifter than the wind;                                                                                                                              

Until they reach’d a desert wide,                                                                                                                                        35

And living land was left behind.                                                                                                                                        

                                                                                                                                                                                                 

 
‘Light down, light down now, true Thomas,                                                                                                                    

And lean your head upon my knee;                                                                                                                                  

Abide ye there a little space,                                                                                                                                              

And I will show you ferlies three.                                                                                                                                       40

                                                                                                                                                                                                 

 ‘O see ye not yon narrow road,                                                                                                                                          

So thick beset wi’ thorns and briers?                                                                                                                                

That is the Path of Righteousness,                                                                                                                                   

Though after it but few inquires.                                                                                                                                       

                                                               
‘And see ye not yon braid, braid road,                                                                                                                              45

That lies across the lily leven?                                                                                                                                           

That is the Path of Wickedness,                                                                                                                                        

Though some call it the Road to Heaven.                                                                                                                        

                                                                                                                                                                                                 

 ‘And see ye not yon bonny road                                                                                                                                      

That winds about the fernie brae?                                                                                                                                      50

That is the Road to fair Elfland,                                                                                                                                          

Where thou and I this night maun gae.                                                                                                                            

                                                                                                                                                                                                 

 ‘But, Thomas, ye sall haud your tongue,                                                                                                                         

Whatever ye may hear or see;                                                                                                                                            

For speak ye word in Elflyn-land,                                                                                                                                       55

Ye’ll ne’er win back to your ain countrie.’                                                                                                                        

                                                                                                                                                                                                 

XV 
O they rade on, and farther on,                                                                                                                                          

And they waded rivers abune the knee;                                                                                                                           

And they saw neither sun nor moon,                                                                                                                                

But they heard the roaring of the sea.                                                                                                                                60

                                                                                                                                                                                                 

XVI 
It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight,                                                                                                               

They waded thro’ red blude to the knee;                                                                                                                         

For a’ the blude that’s shed on the earth                                                                                                                         

Rins through the springs o’ that countrie.                                                                                                                       

                                                                                                                                                                                                 

XVII Syne they came to a garden green,                                                                                                                                     65

And she pu’d an apple frae a tree:                                                                                                                                     

‘Take this for thy wages, true Thomas;                                                                                                                            

It will give thee the tongue that can never lee.’                                                                                                               

                                                                                                                                                                                                 

XVIII ‘My tongue is my ain,’ true Thomas he said;                                                                                                                  

‘A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!                                                                                                                                         70

I neither dought to buy or sell                                                                                                                                            

At fair or tryst where I might be.                                                                                                                                        

                                                                                                                                                                                                 

XIX ‘I dought neither speak to prince or peer,                                                                                                                        

Nor ask of grace from fair ladye!’—                                                                                                                                  

‘Now haud thy peace, Thomas,’ she said,                                                                                                                        75

‘For as I say, so must it be.’                                                                                                                                                

                                                                                                                                                                                                 

XX He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,                                                                                                                            

And a pair o’ shoon of the velvet green;                                                                                                                         

And till seven years were gane and past,                                                                                                                         

True Thomas on earth was never seen.                                                                                                                             80                                                                                                                                                                                                

GLOSS: ferlie] marvel. tett] tuft. harp and carp] play and recite (as a minstrel). weird] doom. leven] ? lawn.