BRAVE son of Dalvorig, Dalvorig’s son am I;
Son am I of the mountain, son am I of the rock.
Not like the timid dwellers in city walls am I;
I am the remnant of the old, the brave Armenian stock.
The brave son of Dalvorig, Dalvorig’s son am I,
And in the presence of the Turk I do not cringe or bow;
The free son of the rocky hills, the rugged heights, am I;
My eyes have never looked upon the plough-haft or the plough.
CHORUS.
Ho, my Armenian brothers, Dalvorig’s son am I;
Oh, come to me, come hither, for the love of liberty!
When on the world I ope’d my eyes I saw our mountains high,
Our rocks and cliffs; our mountains, our rocks and cliffs were free.
Until I close my eyes upon the darkness when I die,
Ne’er shall the feet of foreigners tread here triumphantly.
My mother gave me birth in a narrow, rocky gorge,
The strong branch of a walnut tree my cradle-bed became;
So plain and simple was my birth, so plainly I was reared.
My portion in this earthly life is conflict, fire, and flame.
My feet are bare, my chest exposed ; but what for that care I,
If only my young sister may grow up free like me ?
To me the sunshine and the cold and mist are all the same,
So long as here the Turk and Koord have no authority.
My life is hard, my life is rough; I never have been used
To dwell at ease in luxury and feed on dainty fare.
I do not live in palace halls, my dwelling is the rock,
The tempest and the earthquake are my companions there.
Let other men inhabit the valleys and the plains,
And with the base and ruthless Turk on terms of friendship be;
I will remain unvanquished forever and a day,
Even if twenty squadrons should come to vanquish me.
Instead of tender wheaten bread, the millet is my food;
I forge the red-hot iron day and night, incessantly ;
I make cross-irons for griddles, and spades to till the soil;
Men look upon my lot in life as hard, but I am free.
High genius and the homage of the mind are not for me;
Enough for me it is to have my dagger and my sword;
Enough for me it is to know that while the mountains stand
No foreigner shall ever be my master and my lord.
My arms my only playthings are; comfort I hate, and ease ;
A quiet and a placid life upon me soon would pall.
I love the chase, I love the fight, I love the fight’s reward,
And I am ever ready when comes the signal call.
When the alarm is given, then fearless I start forth;
The mountains of Sassoun breathe a sigh and cry aloud –
They cry aloud, and over them there spreads a crimson stain;
The red stain on the mountains, it is their heroes’ blood.
The hero’s heart, the hero’s hand! What does the hero care
Although a thousand wounds and one should pierce him, blow on blow ?
For every blow men deal him, a thousand he returns;
He strews the earth with corpses, a banquet for the crow.
I leap upon the mountains as leaps the mountain deer;
The thunder of my angry voice the lion’s roar is like;
I foam as foams the ocean, fierce beating on the shore;
And when I smite the foeman, as a thunderbolt I strike.
The stormy field of battle is my portion in this life ;
There either the red sunset light shall see, in evening’s breath,
My banner wave in victory, and give it greeting fair,
Or it shall see my silent face set pale and cold in death.
(Mihran Damadian)
More Poetry from Mihran Damadian:
Mihran Damadian Poems based on Topics: Courage, Death & Dying, Sisters, Life, Liberty & Freedom, Heroism, Sons, Man, Fire, World, Cities- Furfurcar (Roaring Cliff) (Mihran Damadian Poems)
- The Imprisoned Revolutionist (Mihran Damadian Poems)
- The Lament Of Martyred Sumpad's Mother (Mihran Damadian Poems)
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