The Fiddler of Dooney

Posted 2021-04-30 江南外语屏

The Fiddler of Dooney

W.B. Yeats (1865–1939)

 

WHEN I play on my fiddle in Dooney,   

Folk dance like a wave of the sea;   

My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,  

My brother in Moharabuiee.      

在杜尼我一奏起我的小提琴

土风舞蹈就如阵阵波浪滚滚而来

侄儿兄弟皆是牧师

布道在Kilvarnet和Moharabuiee

 

注： Kilvarnet，爱尔兰一地区。There are 23 town lands that we know about in Kilvarnet. This represents 98.8% of all the area in Kilvarnet.Moharabuiee（摩诃庇） is the suburb of Sligo town now called Maugheraboy. Maugheraboy is, or was the home of at least 3 great fiddle players, the late Joe O’Dowd, his wife Sheila O’Dowd, who still lives there andher son Sheamie.

 

I passed my brother and cousin:             5

They read in their books of prayer;  

I read in my book of songs   

I bought at the Sligo fair.      

我去拜访他们二人

他们却诵读祈祷经文

我只好读我的

从斯莱戈市场买来的歌集

 

When we come at the end of time,  

To Peter sitting in state,  10

He will smile on the three old spirits,    

But call me first through the gate;   

我们直到生命尽头，

来到彼得守卫的天国门口

他笑对三个老鬼

却先喊我进去

 

For the good are always the merry,  

Save by an evil chance,   

And the merry love the fiddle     15

And the merry love to dance:    

因为好人永得快乐

除非邪恶降临

快乐的人啊总爱那琴儿

快乐的人啊总爱跳舞

 

And when the folk there spy me,     

They will all come up to me,      

With ‘Here is the fiddler of Dooney!’     

And dance like a wave of the sea.    20

乡亲们一看到我啊

都聚到我的身旁

说道“杜尼的琴师来了”

于是跳起舞来如海浪滚滚

 

关于Dooney，作者如是说：A couple of miles from Innisfree, no four or five miles from Innisfree, there's a great rock called Dooney Rock where I had often picnicked when a child. And when in my 24th year I made up a poem about a merry fiddler Icalled him 'The Fiddler of Dooney' in commemoration of that rock and of all those picnics. The places mentioned in the poem are all places near Sligo.也有读者如是评论诗歌，认为诗歌不宜解读或翻译，甚至以其父亲葬礼为例子，如是说：Don't ruin this song with analysis. Yeats is telling us a story, a simple story, about an Irish fiddler whose soul is expressed in his merriment and his music. Such fiddlers are a gift to be treasured while they live and would be celebrated when they die. We read this poem at my father's funeral Mass --and remembered all the joy he and his fiddle had given us.

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