Here is the postal triple, horses’r ushing
Along Mother Volga in winter blend.
The coachman, ruefully humming,
Is shaking musingly his riotous head.
\"What are you thinking about, dear fellow?\"
The passenger asked him affably. -
What is in your broken heart with sorrow?
Tell me, who did have upset you by?”
\"Oh, dear my master, kind my master,
It’s almost a year since I have loved,
And the infidel headman, the Tatar worse there,
Scolds me cruelly, but I endure it enough.
Oh, dear master, Christmastide is coming
And she, Alas, will no longer be mine,
A rich man chose her, but a hateful one he,
She will not see joyful days shine. …”
The coachman fell silent and the leather whip
Angrily tucked it into his cloth belt:
\"My dear ones, stop, you restless things,
He calmly said, sighing sadly himself. —
The horses will be sad for me once
Having parted, the greyhounds, with me,
And I will no longer be able to rush race
Along Mother Volga every winter!”