Night. —North-Easter. —Roar of soldiers. —Roar of waves.
A wine cellar has been pillaged. —By the walls,
Down the gutters, it goes pouring—precious flood,
And a blood-red moon is dancing in the wash.

Quite demented is the sway of poplar stems.
Quite demented—in the night—the song of birds.
Where the statue of the Tsar stood—all is bare.
And above the Tsar's old statue—is the night.

Barracks, dockside—drinking, all. The world—is ours!
Ours the cellars and their princely stocks of wine!
The whole town is there, stampeding like a bull,
Crowding round the turbid puddle—for a drink.

In the cloud of wine—the moon. —Who's there?
Be a comrade, now, my beauty: 'ave a drink!
And round the town a jolly rumor runs:
There's a couple somewhere's drowned 'emselves in wine.

Theodosia, last days of October

(NB! The birds were-drunk.)