Ivan Krylov
The Donkey and Nightingale

The Donkey saw the Nightingale perched on a limb
Of a sycamore, and said to him:
“I’ve heard that you’re a splendid singer. Well,
I’d like to hear you sing myself, so I could tell —
Ahem! that is, evaluate —
Whether your gift is genuinely great.”

The Nightingale began to demonstrate his skill:
He whistled, modulating through all keys,
Performed a run, a trill,
Sustained one high, sweet note with perfect ease,
Echoed, in tones subdued but clear,
The plaintive shepherd’s pipe from the far hill,
Then sent a shower of semiquavers through the trees.

All things and creatures paused, so they might hear
Aurora's favorite songster: in the fields, the herds
Lay down, bemused; the other choiring birds
Tell silent; and the zephyrs ceased to play.
The shepherd, ravished by such loveliness.
Scarce breathed, and only rarely turned his head away
To smile (still listening) at the shepherdess.

The music ceased. The Donkey lit a cigarette.
“Not bad,” he said. “Your voice is rather pretty.
It really is a pity,
Though, that you have never met
Our Rooster. If only you could get
Some lessons from him, he would show you
Some helpful pointers once he got to know you.”

When, finally, the Ass had had his bray,
The Nightingale took wing and flew far, far away.

From long-eared critics. Lord, deliver us, we pray!

Translated by Guy Daniels