From the bark of a birch-tree.
The vodka's provided,
Black bread, too, besides,
And they all begin feasting:
Each munches some bread
And drinks three cups of vodka--
But then comes the question 120
Of who can, in Russia,
Be happy and free?

Luka cries, "The pope!"
And Roman, "The Pomyeshchick!"
And Prov shouts, "The Tsar!"
And Demyan, "The official!"
"The round-bellied merchant!"
Bawl both brothers Goobin,
Mitrodor and Ivan.
Pakhom shrieks, "His Lordship, 130
His most mighty Highness,
The Tsar's Chief Adviser!"

The obstinate peasants
Grow more and more heated,
Cry louder and louder,
Swear hard at each other;
I really believe
They'll attack one another!
Look! now they are fighting!
Roman and Pakhom close, 140
Demyan clouts Luka,