Robert Berns 25.I VII.1796

Robert Burns was the most democratic poet of the 18th century. His birthday is celebrated in Scotland as a national holiday.

My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O, And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O. He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a farthing, O, For without an honest, manly heart no man was worth regarding, O.

В горах мое сердце... Доныне я там. По следу оленя лечу по скалам. Гоню я оленя, пугаю козу. В горах мое сердце, а сам я внизу. Прощай, моя родина! Север, прощай, Отечество славы и доблести край. По белому свету судьбою гоним, Навеки останусь я сыном твоим! Прощайте, вершины под кровлей снегов, Прощайте, долины и скаты лугов, Прощайте, поникшие в бездну леса, Прощайте, потоков лесных голоса. В горах мое сердце... Доныне я там. По следу оленя лечу по скалам. Гоню я оленя, пугаю козу. В горах мое сердце, а сам я внизу! My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, A-chasing the wild deer and following the roe My heart's. In the Highlands, wherever I go! All hail to the Highlands, all hail to the North, The birthplace of valour, the country of worth! Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow, Farewell to the straths and green valleys below, Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods, Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods! Adieu for a while, I can never forget thee, The land of my fathers, the soil of the free, I sigh for the hour that shall bid me retrace The path of my childhood, my own native place. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, A-chasing the wild deer and following the roe My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go!

The crimson blossom charms the bee, The summer sun the swallow: So dear this tuneful gift to me From lovely Isabella. Her portrait fair upon my mind Revolving time shall mellow, And memory's latest effort find The lovely Isabella. No Bard nor lover's rapture this In fancies vain and shallow! She is, so come my soul to bliss, The Lovely Isabella. С утра к цветам спешит пчела, Стрижи над нивой спелой, Но мне мелодия мила Прекрасной Изабеллы. Её портрет в мечтах моих Смыть время не посмело, И вспомню я в последний миг О милой Изабелле. Смешны и Бард, и любодей В фантазии несмелой. Блаженство всей души моей С Прекрасной Изабеллой.

0, my luve is like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June. 0, my love is like a melodie, That's sweetly played in tune. As fair thou art, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I, And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry. Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun! And I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands of life shall run. And fare the weel, my only luve! And fare the well awhile! And I will come again, my love. Tho it were ten thousand mile! Любовь, как роза, роза красная, Цветет в моем саду. Любовь моя - как песенка, С которой в путь иду. Сильнее красоты твоей Моя любовь одна. Она с тобой, пока моря Не высохнут до дна. Не высохнут моря, мой друг, Не рушится гранит, Но остановится песок, А он, как жизнь, бежит... Будь счастлива, моя любовь, Прощай и не грусти. Вернусь к тебе, хоть целый свет Пришлось бы мне пройти!

Ivan Alekseevich Bunin– «…outstanding master of words» (K.G.Paustovsky) Russia France

Senior brother Ivan Bunin - Julius Alekseevich - had a great influence on the formation of the writer. He was a brother like a home teacher. Ivan Alekseevich wrote about him: "He walked with me all the gymnasium course, was engaged with me in tongues, read me first-fruits of psychology, philosophy, social Sciences and the natural Sciences; in addition, we are without end, led with him talking about literature".

Russian poet and prose writer, Nobel prize winner Ivan Alekseevich Bunin, biographically and creatively associated with Yelets edge, and first of all with Yelets, which is a hub of real artistic space, not accidentally referred to as Bunin Russia. A city in the fate of the writer will be the beginning, the «divine point», where disperse the line of his life and creative the destiny