剃须刀贩子

The RazorSeller

John Wolcot

A fellow in a markettown, most musical, cried razors up and down, and offer'd twelve for eighteen pence：

Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap, And for the money quite a heap, As every man would buy, with cash and sense．A country bumpkin the great offer heard；Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a thick black beard,Thst seem'd a shoebrush stuck beneath his nose：With cheerfulness the eighteenpence he paid, And proudly to himself, in whispers, said, "This rascal stole the razors, I suppose．"No matter if the fellow be a knave , Provided that the razors shave：

It sartinly will be a monstrous prize．"

So home the clown, with his good fortune wentAnd quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes．Being well lather'd from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, Just like a hedger cutting furze：

'Twas a vile razor!—then the rest he tried—

All were imposters—"Ah!" Hodge sigh'd, "I wish my eighteenpence within my purse．"

In vain to chase his beard,and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winc'd,and stamp'd,and swore,Brought blood, and danc'd, blasphem'd, and made wryfaces, And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er：His muzzle, form'd of opposition stuff, Firm as a Foxite, would not loose its ruff；So kept it laughing at the steel and suds：

Hodge, in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance,with clench'd claws,On the vile cheat that sold the goods．

‘Razors! A damn'd confounded dog, Not fit to scrape a hog!

Hodge sought the fellowfound him, and begun "P'rhaps,Master Razorrogue,to you'tis fun That people flay themselves out of their lives：You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my scoundrel whiskers here a scrubbing, with razors just like oyster knives．

Sirrah! I tell you,you're a knave, To cry up razors that can't shave．"

"Friend," quoth the razorman, I am no knave：As for the razors you have bought, Upon my soul I never thought That they would shave．"

"Not think they'd shave!"quoth Hodge, with wondering eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell；

"What were they made for then,you dog ?" he cries．

"Made!" quoth the fellow with a smile—"to sell．"

剃须刀贩子

约翰·沃尔科特

在一个集镇上有一个家伙， 韵味十足地，到处叫卖剃须刀， 十二片只卖十八便士：

那当然像是便宜得出奇，而这点儿钱就能买一大堆， 只要他有钱又有头脑,每个男人都会买。一个乡巴佬听到了这大贱卖， 可怜的庄稼汉，苦于一把浓密黑胡子，那就像鼻子底下长了把鞋刷子：

兴高采烈他付了十八便士， 然后骄傲地自语，压低嗓子：

“我看，这小子的剃须刀准是偷来的。“不管这家伙是不是个无赖， 只要这剃刀刮得快：

那肯定好得不得了。”

那乡巴佬回了家，带着他的好运气， 飞快地给自己抹了满脸肥皂泡。

用一碟或一桶肥皂把脸抹好， 庄稼汉现在开始拔除脸上杂草， 痛得他龇牙咧嘴，就像修篱人在砍伐荆棘：这片剃刀糟透了！——然后又把其他的试一试全都是骗子——“唉！”庄稼汉叹了一口气， “我希望我的十八便士还在我的钱包里。”徒劳地铲除他的胡子，把自己修体面，他又割又挖，疼得缩脖、跺脚又发誓，刮出了血，他蹦跳、咒骂又是做苦脸，一遍遍地骂着每一片剃刀：

他的嘴脸，铸造自抗体材料， 坚固如福克斯的追随者，不肯摘下皱领那就留着它——嘲笑剃须刀和肥皂泡：庄稼汉，一怒之下，绷紧他愤怒的双唇，紧握拳头，对着那卖货的坏蛋骗子，发誓要报这个大恨深仇。

“剃须刀片！该死的、讨厌的狗， 连刮个猪毛都不合适！”

庄稼汉去找那家伙——找到他，开了腔——“也许，剃须刀无赖师傅，对你来讲叫别人丧命是件有趣的事：

你这个恶棍！我刮了一个小时， 用那些像牡蛎刀一样的剃须刀 把我恶棍一样的络腮胡子清扫。

小子！我告诉你，你是个无赖， 不能用的剃须刀也拿来叫卖。”

“朋友，”剃须刀贩子说：“我不是无赖：说到你买的剃须刀 我真的从没想到 它们能刮下胡子来。”“没想到它们能用！”庄稼汉说，眼里闪着惊奇，声音颇像一个印第安人的叫嚷；

“那你做它们干什么，你这条狗？”他喊。“做！”那家伙微笑着说——“就是为了卖。”