XLVIII

 

Untxiak zugaztian,

   Gure igarotzean lasterka,

Buztantxo zuriak

   Belar berdean.

“Urrengoan, Ama,

   Eiz-izkillua ekarri bear det,

Badakit ez dezula on artzen

   Bañan..!”

                John’en seme berezia,

Bere aurpegi zuri-gorria,

   Begi argi, zindoak.

Ezin buruan sartu

   Illak ez dirala piztutzen.

Zalditxo gañean draka-draka

   Udazken egun artan.

“Igali urte txarra, Ama,

   Belarrarentzat berriz, ona.”

Aitak egin oi zun bezela

   Erritxoan bola-jokuan;

Illunabarrean,

   Bere odolekoen etxe zaarrera

Cricket gertaeraren

   Berri artzera,

Pozik eta nekatua —

   Rosamund oker zegon.

 

 

 

XLVIII

Rabbits in the park, / scuttling as we pass, / Little white tails / Against the green grass. / ‘Next time, Mother, / I must really bring a gun, / I know you don’t like shooting, / But ...!’ / John’s own son, / That blond bowed face, / Those clear steady eyes, / Hard to be certain / That the dead don’t rise. / Jogging on his pony / Through the autumn day, / ‘Bad year for fruit, Mother, / But good salt hay,’ / Bowling for the village / As his father had before; / Coming home at evening / To read the cricket score, / Back to the old house / Where all his race belong, / Tired and contented— / Rosamund was wrong.