The black crow instead of the pope will caw over me; the bare plain will be my dwelling; the dark blue cloud my roof-tree.
The eagle will claw out my brown eyes: the rain will wash my Cossack bones, and the whirlwinds dry them.

But what am I?
Of what should I complain?
'Tis clear God willed it so.

If I am to be lost, then so be it!" and he went straight to the tavern.
My late grandfather's aunt was somewhat surprised at seeing Peter at the tavern, at an hour when good men go to morning mass; and stared at him as though in a dream when he called for a jug of brandy, about half a pailful.

But the poor fellow tried in vain to drown his woe.

The vodka stung his tongue like nettles, and tasted more bitter than wormwood.