Et d'apres ma pensee

Je dirais ce que j'aime encore,

Si je n'etais au lycee.

Apres cela, mon cher ami,

L'on peut me reconnaitre:

Oui! tel que le bon Dieu me fit,

Je veux toujours paraitre.

Vrai demon pour l'espieglerie,

Vrai singe par sa mine,

Beaucoup et trop d'etourderie, -

Ma foi - voila Poushkine.

MY PEDIGREE.

WITH scorning laughter at a fellow writer,

In a chorus the Russian scribes

With name of aristocrat me chide:

Just look, if please you... nonsense what!

Court Coachman not I, nor assessor,

Nor am I nobleman by cross;

No academician, nor professor,

I'm simply of Russia a citizen.

Well I know the times' corruption,

And, surely, not gainsay it shall I:

Our nobility but recent is:

The more recent it, the more noble 't is.

But of humbled races a chip,

And, God be thanked, not alone

Of ancient Lords am scion I;

Citizen I am, a citizen!

Not in cakes my grandsire traded,

Not a prince was newly-baked he;

Nor at church sang he in choir,

Nor polished he the boots of Tsar;

Was not escaped a soldier he

From the German powdered ranks;