"'At last our Pomyeshchick Invented a new game: 190 He sent us an order, ''Appear!'' We appeared not. Instead, we lay low In our dens, hardly breathing. A terrible drought Had descended that summer, The bogs were all dry; So he sent a policeman, Who managed to reach us, To gather our taxes, 200 In honey and fish; A second time came he, We gave him some bear-skins; And when for the third time He came, we gave nothing,-- We said we had nothing. We put on our laputs, We put our old caps on, Our oldest old coats, And we went to Korojin 210 (For there was our master now, Stationed with soldiers). ''Your taxes!'' ''We have none, We cannot pay taxes, The corn has not grown, And the fish have escaped us.'' ''Your taxes!'' ''We have none.'' He waited no longer; ''Hey! Give them the first round!'' He said, and they flogged us. 220 "'Our pockets were not Very easily opened; Shalashnikov, though, was A master at flogging. Our tongues became parched, And our brains were set whirling, And still he continued. He flogged not with birch-rods, With whips or with sticks, But with knouts made for giants. 230 At last we could stand it No longer; we shouted, ''Enough! Let us breathe!'' We unwound our foot-rags And took out our money, And brought to the Barin A ragged old bonnet With roubles half filled. "'The Barin grew calm, He was pleased with the money; 240 He gave us a glass each Of strong, bitter brandy, And drank some himself With the vanquished Korojins, And gaily clinked glasses. ''It's well that you yielded,'' Said he, ''For I swear I was fully decided To strip off the last shred Of skins from your bodies 250 And use it for making A drum for my soldiers! Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!'' (He was pleased with the notion.) ''A fine drum indeed!'' "'In silence we left; But two stalwart old peasants Were chuckling together; They'd two hundred roubles In notes, the old rascals! 260 Safe hidden away In the end of their coat-tails. They both had been yelling, ''We're beggars! We're beggars!'' So carried them home. ''Well, well, you may cackle!'' I thought to myself, ''But the next time, be certain, You won't laugh at me!'' The others were also 270 Ashamed of their weakness, And so by the ikons We swore all together That next time we rather Would die of the beating Than feebly give way. It seems the Pomyeshchick Had taken a fancy At once to our roubles, Because after that 280 Every year we were summoned To go to Korojin, We went, and were flogged.