ЦАП

Кто из нас не помнит замечательную песенку Никитина "Крошка Вилли-Винки ходит и глядит..."? Везде написано, что исходное стихотворение - это шотландская народная поэзия в переводе Ирины Токмаковой. Волею судеб занесло меня в Шотландию. Одной из достопримечательностей города Глазго является его некрополь. А там недалеко от главного входа надгробие такое вот

На всякий случай залез в гугл - узнать про "wee willie winkie" - там так и написано, что стихотворение сие написал Вильям Миллер. А еще нашелся оригинальный текст на шотландском и английском - Токмакова часть строф при переводе выкинула. Да и стиль стихотворения поменяла

The original text of 1841 was written in Scots and is below:
Wee Willie Winkie rins through the toon,
Up stairs an' doon stairs in his nicht-gown,
Tirlin' at the window, crying at the lock,
"Are the weans in their bed, for it's now ten o'clock?"
"Hey, Willie Winkie, are ye comin' ben?
The cat's singin grey thrums to the sleepin hen,
The dog's speldert on the floor and disna gie a cheep,
But here's a waukrife laddie, that wunna fa' asleep."
Onything but sleep, you rogue, glow'ring like the moon,
Rattling in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon,
Rumblin', tumblin' roon about, crawin' like a cock,
Skirlin like a kenna-what, waukenin' sleepin' fock.
"Hey Willie Winkie, the wean's in a creel,
Wamblin' aff a bodie's knee like a verra eel,
Ruggin' at the cat's lug and raveling a' her thrums-
Hey Willie Winkie – see there he comes."
Wearit is the mither that has a stoorie wean,
A wee, stumpie, stousie, that canna rin his lane,
That has a battle aye wi' sleep afore he'll close an e'e-
But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.[4]

Versions paraphrased for English readers began to appear in print from 1844 in the form:[5]
Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town,
Up stairs and down stairs in his night-gown,
Tapping at the window, crying at the lock,
Are the children in their bed, for it's past ten o'clock?
Hey, Willie Winkie, are you coming in?
The cat is singing purring sounds to the sleeping hen,
The dog's spread out on the floor, and doesn't give a cheep,
But here's a wakeful little boy who will not fall asleep!
Anything but sleep, you rogue! glowering like the moon,'
Rattling in an iron jug with an iron spoon,
Rumbling, tumbling round about, crowing like a cock,
Shrieking like I don't know what, waking sleeping folk.
Hey, Willie Winkie – the child's in a creel!
Wriggling from everyone's knee like an eel,
Tugging at the cat's ear, and confusing all her thrums
Hey, Willie Winkie – see, there he comes!"
Weary is the mother who has a dusty child,
A small short little child, who can't run on his own,
Who always has a battle with sleep before he'll close an eye
But a kiss from his rosy lips gives strength anew to me.

Осталось найти первоисточники остальных "народных" стихов

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Миша.