In the market-place of Kiev
A young Tchumak drank and drank:
Oxen, wagons, yokes and yoke-sticks,
All his wealth in drink he sank,
In the market-place of Kiev.
And at sundown he awoke—
How he peered into his purse!
All his pockets he turned out,
With full many a muttered curse,
In the market-place of Kiev.
Not a penny to be found!
For his revelling was naught.
“Pour, Shinkarka,[47] half a quart!”
But she laughs at such a thought
Scorns to wait on such as he.
Then he takes his zhupan[48] off.
“Oh, Shinkarka, even pour
Just a quarter of a quart!”
“To coat add four zloty[49] more—
Then there’s drink for revelling!”
To “mohyla”[50] sad he went,
Gazed adown the valley green:
Oxen, wagons—wagered, spent—
Yokes and yoke-sticks, all his wealth
Lost in market-place of Kiev!
“Oi, I’m off to distant lands!
To Moldavia[51] go I—
I’ll be slaving seven years,
Then more oxen I shall buy,
And I’ll be Tchumak again!”