"Is that what you boast of-- Your happiness, peasant?" Exclaims an old lackey With legs weak and gouty. 240 "Treat me, little brothers, I'm happy, God sees it! For I was the chief serf Of Prince Peremeteff, A rich prince, and mighty, My wife, the most favoured By him, of the women; My daughter, together With his, the young lady, Was taught foreign languages, 250 French and some others; And she was permitted To _sit_, and not stand, In her mistress's presence. Good Lord! How it bites!" (He stoops down to rub it, The gouty right knee-cap.) The peasants laugh loudly! "What laugh you at, stupids?" He cries, getting angry, 260 "I'm ill, I thank God, And at waking and sleeping I pray, 'Leave me ever My honoured complaint, Lord! For that makes me noble!' I've none of your low things, Your peasants' diseases, My illness is lofty, And only acquired By the most elevated, 270 The first in the Empire; I suffer, you villains, From gout, gout its name is! It's only brought on By the drinking of claret, Of Burgundy, champagne, Hungarian syrup, By thirty years' drinking! For forty years, peasants, I've stood up behind it-- 280 The chair of His Highness, The Prince Peremeteff, And swallowed the leavings In plates and in glasses, The finest French truffles, The dregs of the liquors. Come, treat me, you peasants!" "Excuse us, your Lordship, Our wine is but simple, The drink of the peasants! 290 It wouldn't suit _you_!" A bent, yellow-haired man Steals up to the peasants, A man from White Russia. He yearns for the vodka. "Oh, give me a taste!" He implores, "I am happy!" "But wait! You must tell us In what you are happy." "In bread I am happy; 300 At home, in White Russia, The bread is of barley, All gritty and weedy. At times, I can tell you, I've howled out aloud, Like a woman in labour, With pains in my stomach! But now, by God's mercy, I work for Gubonine, And there they give rye-bread, 310 I'm happy in that." A dark-looking peasant, With jaw turned and twisted, Which makes him look sideways, Says next, "I am happy. A bear-hunter I am, And six of my comrades Were killed by old Mishka;[26] On me God has mercy." "Look round to the left side." 320 He tries to, but cannot, For all his grimaces! "A bear knocked my jaw round, A savage young female." "Go, look for another, And give her the left cheek, She'll soon put it straight!" They laugh, but, however, They give him some vodka. Some ragged old beggars 330 Come up to the peasants, Drawn near by the smell Of the froth on the vodka; They say they are happy.