The Merry Song

The "Merry Song" finished,They struck up a chorus,A song of their own,A wailing lament(For, as yet, they've no others).And is it not strangeThat in vast Holy Russia,With masses and massesOf people unnumbered,No song has been bornOverflowing with joyLike a bright summer morning?Yes, is it not striking,And is it not tragic?O times that are coming,You, too, will be paintedIn songs of the people,But how? In what colours?And will there be everA smile in their hearts?

"Eh, that's a fine song!'Tis a shame to forget it."Our peasants regretThat their memories trick them.And, meanwhile, the peasantsOf "Earthworms" are saying,"We lived but for 'barschin,'Pray, how would you like it?You see, we grew up'Neath the snout of the Barin,Our noses were gluedTo the earth. We'd forgottenThe faces of neighbours,Forgot how to speak.We got tipsy in silence,Gave kisses in silence,Fought silently, too."

"Eh, who speaks of silence?We'd more cause to hate itThan you," said a peasantWho came from a VolostNear by, with a waggonOf hay for the market.(Some heavy misfortuneHad forced him to sell it.)"For once our young lady,Miss Gertrude, decidedThat any one swearingMust soundly be flogged.Dear Lord, how they flogged usUntil we stopped swearing!Of course, not to swearFor the peasant means--silence.We suffered, God knows!Then freedom was granted,We feasted it finely,And then we made upFor our silence, believe me:We swore in such styleThat Pope John was ashamedFor the church-bells to hear us.(They rang all day long.)What stories we told then!We'd no need to seekFor the words. They were writtenAll over our backs."

"A funny thing happenedIn our parts,--a strange thing,"Remarked a tall fellowWith bushy black whiskers.(He wore a round hatWith a badge, a red waistcoatWith ten shining buttons,And stout homespun breeches.His legs, to contrastWith the smartness above them,Were tied up in rags!There are trees very like him,From which a small shepherdHas stripped all the bark offBelow, while aboveNot a scratch can be noticed!And surely no ravenWould scorn such a summitFor building a nest.)"Well, tell us about it."

"I'll first have a smoke."

And while he is smokingOur peasants are asking,"And who is this fellow?What sort of a goose?"

"An unfortunate footmanInscribed in our Volost,A martyr, a house-serfOf Count Sinegusin's.His name is Vikenti.He sprang from the foot-boardDirect to the ploughshare;We still call him 'Footman.'He's healthy enough,But his legs are not strong,And they're given to trembling.His lady would driveIn a carriage and fourTo go hunting for mushrooms.He'll tell you some stories:His memory's splendid;You'd think he had eatenThe eggs of a magpie."

Now, setting his hat straight,Vikenti commencesTo tell them the story.