When in a mood of blank meditation,
I lean back, sank in vacant consideration,
it is then that I think of the much that I lack,
and my heart enflames to be a Russian Cossack.
Unfortunately, an Englishman I was born,
who never rode a horse or blew a battle horn.
Yet to ride across the steppe,
that would be romantic,
just a steady gallop, not charge pace,
nothing threatening, frantic.
Of course, I would not like to be caught
in the Napoleonic wars,
and could not garble that language,
though I would understand the cause.
And no, I could not do
that almost squatting, high leaping dance
or drink that amount of Vodka,
even if I were chosen for the chance.
Still, somewhere along my track,
I wish I could have been a Russian Cossack.