"The vodka prostrates us; But does not our labour, Our trouble, prostrate us? The peasant won't grumble At each of his burdens, He'll set out to meet it, And struggle to bear it; 290 The peasant does not flinch At life-wasting labour, And tremble for fear That his health may be injured. Then why should he number Each cupful of vodka For fear that an odd one May topple him over? You say that it's painful To see him lie tipsy?-- 300 Then go to the bog; You'll see how the peasant Is squeezing the corn out, Is wading and crawling Where no horse or rider, No man, though unloaded, Would venture to tread. You'll see how the army Of profligate peasants Is toiling in danger, 310 Is springing from one clod Of earth to another, Is pushing through bog-slime With backs nearly breaking! The sun's beating down On the peasants' bare heads, They are sweating and covered With mud to the eyebrows, Their limbs torn and bleeding By sharp, prickly bog-grass! 320 "Does this picture please you? You say that you suffer; At least suffer wisely. Don't use for a peasant A gentleman's judgement; We are not white-handed And tender-skinned creatures, But men rough and lusty In work and in play. "The heart of each peasant 330 Is black as a storm-cloud, Its thunder should peal And its blood rain in torrents; But all ends in drink-- For after one cupful The soul of the peasant Is kindly and smiling; But don't let that hurt you! Look round and be joyful! Hey, fellows! Hey, maidens! 340 You know how to foot it! Their bones may be aching, Their limbs have grown weary, But youth's joy and daring Is not quite extinguished, It lives in them yet!" The peasant is standing On top of a hillock, And stamping his feet, And after being silent 350 A moment, and gazing With glee at the masses Of holiday people, He roars to them hoarsely. "Hey you, peasant kingdom! You, hatless and drunken! More racket! More noise!" "Come, what's your name, uncle?" "To write in the note-book? Why not? Write it down: 360 'In Barefoot the village Lives old Jacob Naked, He'll work till he's taken, He drinks till he's crazed.'" The peasants are laughing, And telling the Barin The old fellow's story: How shabby old Jacob Had lived once in Peter,[22] And got into prison 370 Because he bethought him To get him to law With a very rich merchant; How after the prison He'd come back amongst them All stripped, like a linden, And taken to ploughing. For thirty years since On his narrow allotment He'd worked in all weathers, 380 The harrow his shelter From sunshine and storm. He lived with the sokha,[23] And when God would take him He'd drop from beneath it Just like a black clod.