that it were to get oor Kornies
that it were to get
Vertalings in die woordeboek Engels - Kornies
kaffa
Geskatte vertalings
Vertoon algoritmies gegenereerde vertalings
voorbeelde
Advanced filtering
Voorbeelde moet herlaai word.
that it were to get
Ple'ma'n glaw?langbot langbot
Christ's garments were divided, four parts being made of them by four soldiers of repute, a share for each soldier. his robe was so beautifully made that they were unwilling to divide it. lots were cast upon it to see who should get the whole robe.
Ty a bonyas arta omma.langbot langbot
But what? David and I did not have to wait long to get an answer to that question. Soon, helicopters hovered overhead – unseen but definitely heard. Spotlights shone blindingly from the aircraft and played upon the throng – and then the shooting started. These, it seemed, were no ordinary helicopters. They were spitting fire from both sides and beams of tracer bullets rent the black sky, raining down on the zombies below. Dozens fell at once – others fled in all directions, trampling on the fallen. The scream of terrified zombies is hard to describe – the sound of thousands of them screaming together is impossible. So, what terrifies a zombie? Well, I can tell you for certain that helicopter gunships do. I couldn’t exactly say how or why these thousands of zombies had been herded back onto the campus where it had all begun – but, now that they were here, it was clear what fate the authorities intended for them. David and I needed to get out and fast. If we were to avoid being strafed by gunfire – or trampled by the panicked undead – I needed a plan. We were hemmed in on all sides. I seized David’s hand even more firmly – he, too, was terrified but seemed to calm a little at my firmer hold. I took him to the base of one of the trees in North Court. We cowered there for precious seconds as the concrete courtyard emptied a little. Time to think. My vision narrowed to a tunnel. I ceased to hear the screams and the gunfire around me. For me, everything went silent. Time slowed to a crawl. My mind had re-directed its entire effort towards solving a single problem: escape. Where to go that might be safe? The only place I could think of was the family crypt in Melbourne General Cemetery, the one where we’d found Paul and Charles. It was ten minutes’ stroll away – in normal circumstances. But, under heavy attack from the air – and with thousands of wailing, murderous zombies between us and that crypt?
Yth esov vy ow tos.langbot langbot
‘But I reckon it was a nasty shock for those Sackville-Bagginses. They thought they were going to get Bag End, that time when he went off and was thought to be dead. And then he comes back and orders them off; and he goes on living and living, and never looking a day older, bless him! And suddenly he produces an heir, and has all the papers made out proper. The Sackville-Bagginses won’t never see the inside of Bag End now, or it is to be hoped not.’
Res yw dhyn gweres.langbot langbot
He soon found that the thicket was closer and more tangled than it had appeared. There were no paths in the undergrowth, and they did not get on very fast. When they had struggled to the bottom of the bank, they found a stream running down from the hills behind in a deeply dug bed with steep slippery sides overhung with brambles. Most inconveniently it cut across the line they had chosen. They could not jump over it, nor indeed get across it at all without getting wet, scratched, and muddy. They halted, wondering what to do. ‘First check!’ said Pippin, smiling grimly.
Yma tri broder dhedhi.langbot langbot
This is only a small selection of the assembled presents. Bilbo’s residence had got rather cluttered up with things in the course of his long life. It was a tendency of hobbit-holes to get cluttered up: for which the custom of giving so many birthday-presents was largely responsible. Not, of course, that the birthday-presents were always new, there were one or two old mathoms of forgotten uses that had circulated all around the district; but Bilbo had usually given new presents, and kept those that he received. The old hole was now being cleared a little.
Res yw dhymm oberi.langbot langbot
First, touching man, he said: 'Let us make man', which words be as it were the words of God the Father to God the Son and to the Holy Ghost, spoken after the manner of men when they go about some great matter, at what time they take good advisement or they begin and do join with the best and wisest counsellors that they can get.
Drog yw an gewer hedhyw.langbot langbot
CHAPTER 19 WHY THE CAPTAIN WANTED A ZOMBIE Good news: neither David nor I received an immediate bullet to the brain. Bad news: both of us were blindfolded, bundled into the back of a military paddy-wagon and found ourselves bumping along a rural highway for a very, very long time. (Or did it just seem that way?) The paddy-wagon was roughly sprung to the point where I felt every pothole, every bump and undulation on that roadway – and there were many. My hands and feet were bound securely and so it was difficult to remain sitting upright. I couldn’t be sure what David was doing – other than roaring and moaning at irregular intervals. “Shut up, Dave!” I screamed – to no obvious effect. And the back of the paddy-wagon smelt distinctly of urine and vomit – both sharp and sour. My guess was that its usual occupants were soldiers who had had a big night on the town and needed some ‘assistance’ getting back to their base. When you close your eyes, travel time becomes distorted. I know of this from empirical research. What sort of research, you ask? Good question: try closing your eyes on the way home from work – whether travelling by train, tram or bus – and only open them when you think you have arrived at your train/tram/bus stop. Go on, try it. I guarantee you’ll always re-open your eyes long before you get near your accustomed stop (unless, of course, you fall asleep). On this particular occasion, of course, I was blindfolded and had no idea of how long the trip actually took. So, I believed the trip was actually many hours longer than it really was. Does that make sense? No matter, it’s just another digression. In any event, the paddy-wagon eventually came to a juddering halt – but not before I was physically spent from the effort of remaining upright whilst bound hand and foot.
Kas yw genev an gewer ma.langbot langbot
“When I saw a US F4 Phantom drop napalm on thousands of my fellow students, burning them all to death in a most painful and horrific way, I knew that it was killing kids that would soon recover – hundreds of them. It was like Dresden. It was like the fire-bombing of Tokyo. Gentlemen, that’s a major war crime. That’s not a battle. That’s not war. That’s why they hanged Generals at Nuremburg!...” Time was indeed short. I could see the guards hurrying to the stage. I had to raise my voice to be heard above the other voices that were now being raised. I started screaming: “...I can’t tell you why your government sent you here. That’s political. But I can tell you that you’ve been sent to war on the basis of a lie! Does that sound familiar? Well, does it? Have you heard of the so-called ‘Gulf of Tonkin Incident’? How many of you have still got brothers risking their lives in ‘Nam because of it? ...” These were the last words I managed to get out before I, too, was hit with a cattle-prod – and screamed very heartily. The hall was in uproar. There was complete pandemonium – just as I’d hoped. The Captain approached my cage as I lay spasming in the floor and hit me with another powerful jolt of electricity from one of the other cattle prods. (Perfect for my plans – but painful all the same.) “Leave him alone, you bastard!” shouted one of the GI’s. “You’re killin’ him!” And, with that, he and several of his buddies rushed on stage to protect me. Cosmic! For an instant, I thought they might actually free me – though that had not been my immediate plan – but the guards drew their side-arms and aimed them squarely at the stage invaders. Sensibly, they retreated. The Captain dropped his prod, came close and looked me in the eye. There was deep hatred in his look. I had wilfully robbed him of his moment of glory. Good. Now to see what the GI’s would do with the (quite plausible) disinformation that I had provided them.
Megi difennys!langbot langbot
At last they came to a narrow gate in a thick hedge. Nothing could be seen of the house in the dark: it stood back from the lane in the middle of a wide circle of lawn surrounded by a belt of low trees inside the outer hedge. Frodo had chosen it, because it stood in an out-of-the-way corner of the country, and there were no other dwellings close by. You could get in and out without being noticed. It had been built a long while before by the Brandybucks, for the use of guests, or members of the family that wished to escape from the crowded life of Brandy Hall for a time. It was an old-fashioned countrified house, as much like a hobbit-hole as possible: it was long and low, with no upper storey; and it had a roof of turf, round windows, and a large round door.
Da yw gensi an glaw.langbot langbot
Marvellous! Hours of fun for the whole family. It made me proud to be a Roman Catholic. (I shouldn’t really be so disrespectful of the owners’ tastes in religious art. The little light in the basilica actually proved to be invaluable inside the otherwise gloomy crypt.) Anyway, there was no doubt as to the ancestry of the folk who had so generously provided my brother and me with this precious haven. And no expense had been spared, it seemed. In one of the niches, was a brand-new – and unoccupied – coffin of extreme grandeur and ornamentation. Whom was this waiting for? None could say since it did not yet bear a plaque. Given that it had obviously been made to order – and was of the highest specification – my guess was that it could only have been made for the (still-living?) patriarch or matriarch of the family. Just a guess, though. And, sure, there were plenty of other expensive fittings inside – including some which appeared to be made of gold and silver (or, at least, were plated with gold and silver) – but this wasn’t the most startling thing to me: it was the fact that the crypt had running water! There was no hot water, of course – let’s not get completely ridiculous – but there, in one dark corner of the room, sat a small water tap (with even a modest drain to catch any overflow). Why? Did the deceased family members get thirsty in the night and need to take a sip of water? I put this question to David – he was no help. I thought about this for a while – in the circumstances, there was nothing much else to do – then the obvious answer dawned on me. There were literally dozens of vases inside the crypt, mostly containing withered blooms. Who was going to lug water from outside to fill all these vessels on a regular basis? No-one would do it willingly. Far better to have the water piped in. Kinda sensible – in an extravagant sort of way. And now pretty handy for any living person – or even a zombie – who decided to move in!
Yw hemma dha lyver?langbot langbot
Anyway, this meant the first item on the agenda in the morning after the battle (was it a ‘battle’, really?) was to clean ourselves up – just as, it seemed, Paul and Charles had been doing whilst holed up here. There were a couple of buckets now parked near the tap – and a watering can. I guessed that the buckets had been placed there by the keepers of the crypt but the watering can? Maybe Paul and Charles had swiped it from somewhere else in the cemetery grounds. A small mystery – too small to worry about. I brandished the watering can in David’s general direction: “Shower, Mate?” Barely a grunt. “Come on, Mate,” I said. “You could be a world record holder: the first zombie to take a shower.” No grunt at all. It seemed that zombies were not keen on personal hygiene – and David stank very badly. His clothes, his hair and his face were all caked with coagulated human blood and gore. I advised him ‘the beautiful people’ were not wearing blood and gore this season but still he seemed unmoved. David had never actually been a fashionisto – and now he was, well, dead, such matters seemed to mean even less to him. How would I get this stinking bugger to wash? I decided to set an example and stripped off my own disreputable gear. For the first time, I had a chance to look at my own state. I, too, was covered in filth of various kinds. I suppose that, by living in close contact with not only David but other zombies, I had picked up a lot of filth that they were carrying – even though I was largely unaware of it at the time. I decided to go naked until I had washed and dried my clothes. To keep warm, I could wrap myself in the blankets that Paul and Charles had left behind. Where had they managed to get the blankets? From their raid upon the gate-keeper’s residence, I supposed. No matter. The blankets were welcome wherever they had come from.
I a wra skrif.langbot langbot
I approached one of the niches and, with a steel rod that was too hand, levered open the plate that sealed it from the outside. It was the one which, by the date on the plaque, had most recently been sealed – about three months previously. Immediately, I was assailed by the stench of human decay. Upon examination, using my “Pope” light, I saw that a bodily liquor was already seeping from the base of the coffin. Would that have affected the structural integrity of the wooden container? Maybe not - not yet. However, given David’s reluctance to fall in line with my plan, I decided he was unlikely to agree to get inside a box that had already been occupied for some time – even if we were able to eject the previous occupant. The other coffins in the crypt were unlikely to be in any better shape. So, it was either the extravagantly ornate, but empty, box – or stay put and think of another plan. I turned to David: “He who hesitates is lost, my friend. Let’s pick up the box again and see what we can do.” This time, bereft of other ideas, I gritted my teeth and lifted the ornate coffin in a ‘clean and jerk’ motion. I posed ‘my end’ on my shoulder and, David, with no obvious effort, did likewise. We exited the crypt as quietly as possible and I wondered how long I could hold my breath – which was the only way I could maintain sufficient strength for the lift. As I walked along a narrow path, towards the parked army vehicles, I recalled that David and I were distantly related to a famous Husband and Wife team of Power Lifters. I knew for certain that I had not had the relevant gene passed down to me – but David, my identical twin, was showing no pain. (How did that work?) Distracted by this thought, I managed to maintain the lift until we reached the khaki Holden utility. This was the vehicle I had chosen to take and, as it happened, it was the closest. I halted and nodded desperately in the direction of the vehicle: “Put it down – gently!” I breathed. David rested his end of the box on the open tailgate of the ute – and did so gently, as requested. This, however, meant that I needed to slide the box forward to the cab wall, whilst still holding the weight of the coffin on my by-now-bruised shoulder .
My a garsa eva hanafas a de.langbot langbot
The Aussie looked as if he’s just stepped off a cattle-station: tall (6’4” or so), rangy and raw-boned. Incongruously, he sported a closely cropped moustache (almost Hitlerian, but not quite). The stare in his eyes also suggested he was the sort of bloke who’d rather have a fight than a feed. “Well, that’s where you’d be wrong, brother,” replied Gately. Gately, on the other hand, looked as if he’d not be out of place as an extra on a Hollywood set. He was big, muscular – and very determined. (And, perhaps, he didn’t much like the talk of ‘lynching’.) The Aussie soldier put down his glass of beer – a serious move in any situation – and challenged Gately: “Oh, yeah? And how’s that?” “There’s a guy, a guy they captured with the zombies while you were away. He’s at the camp now – recovering in the infirmary.” “So?” replied the rangy Aussie, lifting his glass to his lips once more. “Don’t you get it?” replied Gately. “He was living with the zombies. He says he was with them for the entire first two weeks after the outbreak in Melbourne.” The Aussie took in the significance of this – and placed his glass down once again. “And they didn’t eat him?” “No, sir!” asserted Private First Class Gately. “And he’s not a zombie himself?” “Nope. We all saw him,” said Gately. “The guy was as alive as you or me. They had him in a cage, on-stage, at one of the Captain’s lectures – you know, that Doctor Captain.” “Bullshit!” replied the Aussie dismissively. “How can a guy live with the zombies for two weeks – and not get eaten or turn into a zombie himself? That’s just plain bullshit. How can that be?” (Bullshit was something, apparently, that the tall Aussie was fully conversant with.)
Skwith ov.langbot langbot
There seemed to have been more than one person there – too much improvised bedding for just one. Was this where poor Meryl had been hiding out as well? Were the zombies now feasting on her last companion? Thinking thus was all a bit miserable – though I could empathetically feel something of the exultant mental backwash from my twin brother, (a vicarious, visceral ‘joy’ that I did not welcome). I needed to keep occupied. One part of the Rowden White was devoted to music. There was then a listening room in the library – comfy chairs to recline in while a selection of music was piped to you through bulky headphones. There was an adjacent room with a number of turntables playing various vinyl records chosen by the students who came in. It was a popular place to spend a ‘lost’ afternoon. Popular listening choices included “Tales of Topographical Oceans” (by Yes) and Emerson, Lake and Palmer’s triple live album – now deeply unfashionable. At that time, they were thought to be music which was perfectly suited to get stoned by. (And who was I to argue?) Indeed, as you entered the listening room, you would be confronted by a haze of dope smoke so thick you could hardly see your hand in front of you. (Okay, that’s a minor exaggeration – but you understand my meaning.) Marijuana was, of course, still highly illegal in those days – no soft legal options were yet available for those caught offending. However, the local cops in Carlton had long since reached a tacit understanding with the University authorities over the matter. I’m not sure of the details but I think that, whenever some busybody complained about the students smoking dope in the Rowden White, the librarian would be advised that the constabulary were likely to pay a social call later that day – and all dope smoking abruptly ceased. A very sensible arrangement, if you ask me. However, David and I only ever went there for the music! (And we only ever bought ‘Playboy’ to read the articles, too.)
Hi a vynna metya orthiv.langbot langbot
15 sinne gevind in 16 ms. Hulle kom uit baie bronne en word nie nagegaan nie.