The Corbie

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'The Corbie' (Inglis: The Raven) is a poem written bi the Virginian makar Edgar Allan Poe (born 1809, dee'd 1849). A narrative poem, it made the reputation o the makar in Ingland (an maist in the Unitit States). It appears the first time in 1845, in the New York Evening Mirror. Gey muisical an seemin unreal, obeyin tae strict metrical laws, the poem tawks o a mysterious veesit the narrator recievit, wha greets the daith o his luv, Lenore ; a corbie hie on his door, repeats withoot peace « Nae mair » (in the oreeginal version "never more"). Thir wirds mak the narrator becomin crazy (an "never more" is a bit lik the crawin o the corbie).

Poe admittit that he wrote it in a methodic wey. His will wis tae attract critics an tae gie satisfee tae popular wishes. Poe haes taken (mebbe) the rhythm an the complex metric frae the poem o Elizabeth Barrett Browning intutilatit Lady Geraldine's Courtship. Thay are internal ryms.

Translations[eedit | eedit soorce]

Except the Scots translation that ye can find here, an that wis made frae an ither translation (Baudelaire's ane), thay are twa translations in French: the translation o Baudelaire, an the ane o Mallarmé.

Oreeginal version[eedit | eedit soorce]


ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;——
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never—nevermore.'"
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Scots translation[eedit | eedit soorce]

This translation is mair poetic than literal, sae thare coud be chynges in the manner o manipulation o the wirds. It is unner copyleft sae thar is an obligation tae precise that it haes been made bi the Administrator o the blog "The Silver Handkerchief" (wha gied his authorization). It is nae aw in this Wiki's Scots sae ye shoudnae redd up, but anly (mebbe) precise the differences bi notes.



translatit bi the Scots literator o The Siller Handkerchief.

Ance apon a dern midnicht, while È had little licht,
Ower mony a fair-farrant an rare beuk o precious lair,
While È noddit, neer dot, wi a suddentie somane knappit,
Somane wi a douce cran, rappit at ma chaumer,
"It is som kynd o veesitor, said È, chappin at ma chaumer,
Anely that, an næthing mair! "
Och! È hae mynd o't, nou, it wis in a saison in winter,
An ilka sindert deein emmer floorishit its shaidie on the floor,
Ranit È for the mornin, but in fact, shur È wis murnin,
Murnin an feelin sairie, sairie for the lost Lenore,
For the bonnie, bricht rash, that the yingels name Lenore,
Nameless hereawa on wir shore.
An the silken sad unsiccar rishlin o the purpie hingers,
Tirlit me, fillit me, wi ferlie grue like niver felt afore,
Sicweys nou, tae lown the beatin o ma hert, È kept rhymin :
"It is som kynd o veesitor, askin for tae gang ben ma chaumer,
Som guid veesitor wantin tae gang in ma chaumer,
This it is, an naething mair."
Even nou ma saul wis mair strang, ditherin then nae a bittie langer,
"Sir ", said È, " or leddie, È howp ye will me forgie,
The fact is that È wis dotin, an sae douce cam ye knappin,
An sae bonnie ye cam chappin, on the door o ma chaumer,
That È scarce wis shur È haurd ye ", then gapit È the door :
Mirkness thar, an naething mair.
Deep intae that mirkness teetin,
Lang È stood thar, wunnerin, dreidin,
Misdoutin, dreamin dreams nae mortal iver daurst tae dream afore,
But seelens wis unbroken, mirkness did nae taiken beir,
An the anely wird thar spoken wis the cheepit wird « Lenore »,
An nae soond mair.
Back the wey intae ma chaumer, È felt ma saul fierier,
Soon È haurd again a chappin kynd louder than ere,
"Shurly ", said È, " shurly that is somthing at ma windae tirlis,
Let me see whit thareat is, an see whit this meesterie weirs,
Let ma hert be lown a moment, an this meesterie È'll unnerstand better,
It is the wind, an naething mair.
Here when È appent the bairges, then wi mony muivments o the wings,
In thar stappit a keenglike corbie, like frae the sauntly days o yair,
Nae a least obeysance made he, stappit nae mair, an didnae swither,
But as a greit man or wumman he be, perchit, an sat aboon ma chaumer door,
Perch't aboon a bust o Pallas jast aboon the door o ma chaumer,
Perchit, an sat, an naething mair.
Then this ebonie bird begawkin ma dowie fancy intae the smirk,
For this ebonie bird had severity in the attitud an in physionomy,
"Tho thy tap be shorn an shaven " È said, " Thou art shur nae a couart,
Alagrugous corbie, comin frae the days o yair,
Tell me whit thy lordly name is, bi the Nicht's plutonian weir! "
Said the corbie then : « Naemair! »
Muckle È mairvelt, this haundless foul, tae lift discoorse sae fully,
Tho' its anser little meanin, little relevancy buir,
For we kannæ help greein, that nae livin human bein
Iver yet wis blest wi seein bird aboon the door o his chaumer
Bird or beast aboon his sculturit bust o Pallas aboon o his chaumer
The door, cawd wi sic a name as « Naemair ».
But the corbie, sittin lanely on the placit bust, spak anely,
That ane wird, as gin in the tane wird his saul he did ootpoor,
Nae mair oot ower a thing he mootht, nae a feather iver he fluffer't,
Til È scarcelins mair nor mungit, È woud say : nae a soond than munge mair :
"Ither freends hae flewn afore, on the morn's morn he won't be here onymair ",
Then the bird said : « Naemair ».
Flochtit acause o sic a repone, brakin the lown,
"Nae dout ", said È, " whit it moothes is its anely naition an kist,
Caucht frae som demuir maister that unmercifu' misshanter,
Follait fast an follait faster til his sangs ane owerwird buir,
Til the dirges o his howp 'at oorie owerwird buir,
O nae time mair, nae mair. "
But the corbie aye begawkin ma dowie fancy intae the smirk,
Straucht È hurlt a coddie seat fore the bird, bust an door,
Then, just on the silk profoundly lagger't, È betook maself tae link,
Fancy intae fancy, È appleed tae forgaither idea tae idea,
Tae unnerstand whit this uncouthie, shangy, dowie corbie frae the days o yair,
Meant in manin : « Naemair ».
Ower this È sot in ablo jalousin, but nane syllab sayin,
Tae the foul whase fiery e'en nou burnit in ma kist's core,
Wi ma heid like afore fallin, È socht tae ettle 'at an mair,
Wi ma heid leanin, on the coddie's silken linin, 'at the lamplicht gloatit ower,
An sic a coddie's silken linin, wi the lamplicht gloatin ower,
She shall press, och, nae mair !
Then, È thocht, the air grew starker, perfumit frae an unseen censer,
Shu'it bi yingels whase dwaumie feet tinglit on the floor o tait,
"Misluckit! " È cried, " Thy God hath lent thee, bi thir yingels he hath sent thee,
Lissins, lissins an nepenthie, lissins wi Lenore's idea !
Waucht, oh waucht this cannie nepenthie, an forget tynt Lenore! "
Then, « Naemair » quo the corbie.
"Prophet! " said È, " thing o the ill ! Prophet still gif bird or deil !
Whither bi the Ill-Ane sent, or whither wather cuist thee here on shore,
Dern yet undauntit, in this forlet laund enchantit, in this hame bi grue hauntit,
Tell me, È beseek it, truelins, true È beseek it, name me, cry me, È implore !
Tell me, cry me : is thar a balm in Gilead, for È am fu' sair ! "
Quo the corbie : « Naemair ».
"Prophet " said È, " thing o the ill ! Prophet still gif bird or deil !
Bi that Heiven bendit ower wir heids, bi 'at God we baith warship !
Tell tae this greithertit wicht that, inouth the distant Aidenn,
She shall cuddle a sauntit dame, that the yingels name Lenore,
Cuddle a bricht shur an sae bonnie dame the yingels name Lenore ! "
Quo the corbie : « Naemair ».
"That wird is thy sign o depairt, nae freend but fient ! " did È screich, springin,
Gang back intae the Storm, an the Nicht's Plutonian shore!
Leave nae a black feather as a taiken, o the lie thy saul haes spaiken!
Abe ma laneliness unbroken, win aff the bust aboon ma door!
Tak yer neb frae oot ma hert, an yer furm awa frae ma door !
Quo the corbie : « Naemair ».
An the corbie, niver flichtin, still is seatin, still is seatin,
On the paulie bust o Pallas just aboon the door o ma chaumer;
An his e'en hae a' the seemin o a wirricowe's that is dreamin,
An the lamplicht ower him tovin casts his shaidie on the floor o ma chaumer :
An ma saul frae oot that shaidie that lees fleetin on the floor o ma chaumer,
Shall be cairit ower, och : naemair.