Three very cute fairies
Sitting on a bench
And ate a buttered bun,
They got so greasy
That they washed these fairies
With three garden watering cans.

Oh, this winter will be lasting...
Look across the riverbend:
softly waving golden branches,
fall is coming to its end.

Aspens weep: our fall is dying,
Old Arbat Street is bereaved,
and blue Russia's now crying,
turning into falling leaves.

Wait till spring defeats the snowdrifts -
then the Sun will splash its glow...
Oh, this winter will be lasting...
Dusk and snow... Dusk and snow...

O, Jenny’s a’ weet, poor body,
Jenny’s seldom dry:
She draigl’t a’ her petticoatie,
Comin thro’ the rye!

Comin thro’ the rye, poor body,
Comin thro’ the rye,
She draigl’t a’ her petticoatie,
Comin thro’ the rye!

Gin a body meet a body
Comin thro’ the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?

Ilka lassie has her laddie,
Nane, they say, ha’e I
Yet all the lads they smile on me,
When comin’ thro’ the rye.

My breast was chilled through, oh so helpless,
But my steps were still very light.
I picked up the glove for the left hand
And put it by chance on the right.

It seemed like the steps were so many,
But I knew there were only three!
Fall's whisper, with maple-trees blending,
Requested: "Now die with me!

I'm deceived by this my specious
Fate far too fickle, untrue."
I replied: "My precious, my precious!
Me too. I shall die with you..."

'Tis the song of our very last meeting.
I glanced at the house now all dark.
Only candles in the bedroom were burning
With a nondescript yellowish spark.

Today I can see that your features are strikingly sad,
Your arms on your knees are as thin as dandelion stalks.
But listen, in far-away lands that surround lake Chad
A graceful giraffe softly walks.

.......................................................

And how will I tell you of gardens in emeralds clad,
Of towering palm-tress and smells of unthinkable weeds?
You’ve started to cry now. But listen, in far-away Chad
An exquisite-looking giraffe to his grotto proceeds.

Glory to you, inconsolable ache
Yesterday passed away the grey-eyed king.
Late autumn evening was sultry and red
My husband returned and quietly said:

«After the hunt it all happened, you know,
His body was found right by the oak grove.
He was too young to be taken away…
Pity the queen, overnight she turned grey.»

Then, after smoking his usual pipe,
He left for work, as he did every night.
My little daughter, I'll wake up at once
Only to have at her grey eyes one glance.

And by my window the poplar will sing:
«Gone from this earth, no more is your king...»

You were afraid of my love for naught
It isn’t so scary, it isn’t so wild
I was happy just to see your nod
And just to meet your smile

And if you went to another one
Walking under the sun or hail
I wasn’t waiting for you to come
I just looked on your cloak on the nail

And when you were gone I wasn’t hale
Listening to the rhythm of the clock
I was satisfied to seeing the nail
Which was left after your cloak

A lot of days and years had passed
Days turned into a bale
All drama of the world was surpassed:
Somebody pulled from the wall the nail

The life wasn’t like a fairytale
I had no occasions to spark
I was happy that after the nail
Wall held faded, small mark

And when the mark from the wall was gone
Under the dye which was extremely dark
The only thing which pleased me for eon:
The memory of the mark

You were afraid of my love for naught
It isn’t so scary, it isn’t so wild
I was happy just to see your nod
And just to meet your smile

I can wait forever for a bliss
Or make new castles of the sand
What would I ever have for this?
I’m sure – you won’t understand

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae farewell, and then forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.

Robert Burns

I've grown out of Assol time,
Like a short, too tight skirt,
But I've become capable of doing things
And unable to believe, if you'll excuse me,
And prudence and prudence in hand,
Forget the foolish, joyous courage.
And not to scoop up the wetness of spring with my shoe,
Nor run in summer under a rain tent.