|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."
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