«June and July. Part of nightingale tremble. / And we had something of a bird's way, when / The night of the nightingale then disturbing / We — each over ourselves — were frozen. August is tsar. It cares not for a roulade, / It only wants October cannonade. / August is tsar. You do no...»
«There's officer's straightness within my stature, / There's officer's honor within my ribs. / I go to all torments without being stubborn: / A soldier's patience there is! As if we had corrected this step / Sometime with a butt and with steel... / Not in vain, not in vain the Cherkessian...»
«Why are you so sad, my good artist — / my good painter, musician or bard? / To which one of the tempests, the wildest, / had you spent all your talent and heart? And on which one of parts of the road / had you lost all your wretched cooper coins? / You were going to be a god’s prophet...»
«¿Por qué estás tan triste, mi buen artista, / mi buen pintor, músico o bardo? / ¿A cuál de las tempestades, la más salvaje, / le has gastado todo tu talento y tu corazón? ¿Y en qué parte del camino / perdiste todas tus miserables monedas de cobre? / Ibas a ser un profeta de Dios...»