At times he was angry
And nothing would please him;
He frightened us all
By his outbursts of fury:
'Eh, plough not, and sow not,
You downtrodden peasants!
You women, sit spinning
And weaving no longer! 150
However you struggle,
You fools, you must perish!
You will not escape
What by fate has been written!
Three roads are spread out
For the peasant to follow--
They lead to the tavern,
The mines, and the prison!
Three nooses are hung
For the women of Russia: 160
The one is of white silk,
The second of red silk,
The third is of black silk--
Choose that which you please!'
And Grandfather laughed
In a manner which caused us
To tremble with fear
And draw nearer together....
He died in the night,
And we did as he asked us: 170
We laid him to rest
In the grave beside Djoma.