They listen in silence. The Barin commences To write something down In the little black note-book When, all of a sudden, A small, tipsy peasant, Who up to that moment Has lain on his stomach And gazed at the speaker, Springs up straight before him 200 And snatches his pencil Right out of his hand: "Wait, wait!" cries the fellow, "Stop writing your stories, Dishonest and heartless, About the poor peasant. Say, what's your complaint? That sometimes the heart Of the peasant rejoices? At times we drink hard, 210 But we work ten times harder; Among us are drunkards, But many more sober. Go, take through a village A pailful of vodka; Go into the huts-- In one, in another, They'll swallow it gladly. But go to a third And you'll find they won't touch it! One family drinks, 221 While another drinks nothing, Drinks nothing--and suffers As much as the drunkards: They, wisely or foolishly, Follow their conscience; And see how misfortune, The peasants' misfortune, Will swallow that household Hard-working and sober! 230 Pray, have you seen ever The time of the harvest In some Russian village? Well, where were the people? At work in the tavern? Our fields may be broad, But they don't give too freely. Who robes them in spring-time, And strips them in autumn? You've met with a peasant 240 At nightfall, perchance, When the work has been finished? He's piled up great mountains Of corn in the meadows, He'll sup off a pea! Hey, you mighty monster! You builder of mountains, I'll knock you flat down With the stroke of a feather! "Sweet food is the peasant's! 250 But stomachs aren't mirrors, And so we don't whimper To see what we've eaten. "We work single-handed, But when we have finished Three partners[20] are waiting To share in the profits; A fourth[21] one there is, too, Who eats like a Tartar-- Leaves nothing behind. 260 The other day, only, A mean little fellow Like you, came from Moscow And clung to our backs. 'Oh, please sing him folk-songs' And 'tell him some proverbs,' 'Some riddles and rhymes.' And then came another To put us his questions: How much do we work for? 270 How much and how little We stuff in our bellies? To count all the people That live in the village Upon his five fingers. He did not _ask how much The fire feeds the wind with Of peasants' hard work_. Our drunkenness, maybe, Can never be measured, 280 But look at our labour-- Can that then be measured? Our cares or our woes?