Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia?

The year doesn’t matter, The land’s not important, But seven good peasants Once met on a high-road. From Province “Hard-Battered,” From District “Most Wretched,” From “Destitute” Parish, From neighbouring hamlets— “Patched,” “Barefoot,” and “Shabby,” “Bleak,” “Burnt-Out,” and “Hungry,” From “Harvestless” also, They met and disputed Of who can, in Russia, Be happy and free?

Luká said, “The pope,” And Román, “The Pomyéshchick,” Demyán, “The official,” “The round-bellied merchant,” Said both brothers Goóbin, Mitródor and Ívan. Pakhóm, who’d been lost In profoundest reflection, Exclaimed, looking down At the earth, “’Tis his Lordship, His most mighty Highness, The Tsar’s Chief Adviser,” And Prov said, “The Tsar.”

Like bulls are the peasants: Once folly is in them You cannot dislodge it Although you should beat them With stout wooden cudgels: They stick to their folly, And nothing can move them. They raised such a clamour That those who were passing Thought, “Surely the fellows Have found a great treasure And share it amongst them!”