On the banks of the Volga The grass has grown high 80 And the mowers work gladly. The peasants soon feel That they cannot resist it. "It's long since we've stretched ourselves, Come, let us help you!" And now seven women Have yielded their places. The spirit of work Is devouring our peasants; Like teeth in a ravenous 90 Mouth they are working-- The muscular arms, And the long grass is falling To songs that are strange To this part of the country, To songs that are taught By the blizzards and snow-storms, The wild savage winds Of the peasants' own homelands: "Bleak," "Burnt-Out," and "Hungry," 100 "Patched," "Bare-Foot," and "Shabby," And "Harvestless," too.... And when the strong craving For work is appeased They sit down by a haystack. "From whence have you come?" A grey-headed old peasant (The one whom the women Call Vlasuchka) asks them, "And where are you going?" 110 "We are--" say the peasants, Then suddenly stop, There's some music approaching! "Oh, that's the Pomyeshchick Returning from boating!" Says Vlasuchka, running To busy the mowers: "Wake up! Look alive there! And mind--above all things, Don't heat the Pomyeshchick 120 And don't make him angry! And if he abuse you, Bow low and say nothing, And if he should praise you, Start lustily cheering. You women, stop cackling! And get to your forks!" A big burly peasant With beard long and bushy Bestirs himself also 130 To busy them all, Then puts on his "kaftan," [38] And runs away quickly To meet the Pomyeshchick. And now to the bank-side Three boats are approaching. In one sit the servants And band of musicians, Most busily playing; The second one groans 140 'Neath a mountainous wet-nurse, Who dandles a baby, A withered old dry-nurse, A motionless body Of ancient retainers. And then in the third There are sitting the gentry: Two beautiful ladies (One slender and fair-haired, One heavy and black-browed) 150 And two moustached Barins And three little Barins, And last--the Pomyeshchick, A very old man Wearing long white moustaches (He seems to be all white); His cap, broad and high-crowned, Is white, with a peak, In the front, of red satin. His body is lean 160 As a hare's in the winter, His nose like a hawk's beak, His eyes--well, they differ: The one sharp and shining, The other--the left eye-- Is sightless and blank, Like a dull leaden farthing. Some woolly white poodles With tufts on their ankles Are in the boat too. 170