Pour me the wine of liquid flame,
And steep my soul in rubied flow;
Perhaps twill banish cares away,
And tinge with rose this world of woe
Perchance 'twill drown the pangs of life
In Bacchus' horn of nectared fire,
And Fancy find for me a maid
Upon whose bosom I'll expire.
On whirlwind's wing my steed and I
Will cleave the waves of oceans wide.
We'll fly the haunts of mortal man
Where every joy of mine has died.
For death on high is sweeter far
Than life upon the earth below
Which is an urn of buried hopes,
Floating on a sea of woe.









  Rust adorns thee, sword, and mould'ring
Is thy scabbard once so fine.
Where's thy master's arm of iron,
Where's that flashing gleam of thine?'
"On the fatal plain of Shamkor,
He fell dead, with many a wound,
And his blood flowed like a torrent,
Dyeing red the battle ground.
Though he fell beneath the struggle
With the deadly enemy,
Valiant were his deeds and dauntless.
Matchless was his bravery
Foremost was he in the battle,
Smiting, hewing down the foe.
Georgia and a soldier's honour
Made him bear the crushing blow.
A coward's hand has hung me useless
Here to rust in endless night.
Georgia has become a market
Cursed and doomed by venal blight!
I, who proudly fought for freedom,
Now am pawned or sold for gold,
A bartered thing to crown the downfall
Of my country's pride of old.
Many years have passed since
Georgia's Son did whet me till I flashed,
Rendered sharp my blade so deadly,
And with me to battle dashed.
Nor have I heard sounds of trumpets,
Nor the shouts of victory...
I have passed an age thus hanging
Here in rust and slavery."






 























  Thy dreams, dear mother, will become
A garden full of happiness.
O weep not so, nor drown thy heart
In languor of grief's heaviness.
Our wounds are healed, and once again,
We're ready for a dubious fight.
The morn we'll greet with battle cries,
With deeds of wonder and of might.
Tamari's sons will flood the skies
With radiance of vict'ry's light,
And with our lives we'll guard and keep
The torch of honour ever bright.
For glory born of fallen pride
We ne'er will barter Georgia's right!
We'll fell the enemy or die,
And ne'er like cowards shirk a fight.
Though now we're far from Georgia, yet,
Our hearts for her with longing sigh.
One thing sends fires through our veins,
As wondering we see on high,
Above a red-fanged field of war,
Upon a flying steed — a knight!
He holds a flaming sword that like
A star of hope shines in the night!
His glowing eyes flash sombre light.
And there midst man-wrought hell and woe
That knight protects our souls from blight!
When all is still and not a sound
Is heard of cannon's deafening roar,
When battle's surging din is hushed,
And thoughts invade my mind once more,
I seem to see thee, mother, combing
Wool in the quiet of the night.
Thy head is bent and tears like torrents
Fall on the carded wool so white.
A homespun 'chokha' wilt thou sew
For me, made holy by thy tear;
No sword can tear it, nor can fire
Burn through the cloth, O mother dear.
And through the long and dreary night
Sleep toucheth not thy tearful eyes.
God grant to happy smiles and song
Be changed thy mournful dirge and sighs.
Farewell! the battle-trumpet rings,
And bids us rush where soldiers' cries
Resound; where blades like lightning blaze
And cannon's volley rends the skies.
But woe! if glory's thrill is o'er
And all our hopes turn to despair!
Woe if the spark of valour's flame
To ashes cold be quenched fore'er!
Perchance the raven black will croak
A dirge of doom o'er Georgia fair!
Farewell! the battle-trumpet rings
And bids us rush where soldiers' cries
Resound, where blades like lightning blaze
And cannon's volley rends the skies.
Farewell! and weep not, for thy son
Will fell the foe or bravely die!