1 O woe is me for the merry life I led beyond the Bar, And a treble woe for my winsome wife That weeps at Shalimar. 2 They have taken away my long jezail, My shield and sabre fine, And heaved me into the Central jail For lifting of the kine. 3 The steer may low within the byre, The Jat may tend his grain, But there’ll be neither loot nor fire Till I come back again. 4 And God have mercy on the Jat When once my fetters fall, And Heaven defend the farmer’s hut When I am loosed from thrall. 5 It’s woe to bend the stubborn back Above the grinching quern, It’s woe to hear the leg-bar clack And jingle when I turn! 6 But for the sorrow and the shame, The brand on me and mine, I’ll pay you back in leaping flame And loss of the butchered kine. 7 For every cow I spared before In charity set free, If I may reach my hold once more I’ll reive an honest three. 8 For every time I raised the low That scared the dusty plain, By sword and cord, by torch and tow I’ll light the land with twain! 9 Ride hard, ride hard to Abazai, Young Sahib with the yellow hair— Lie close, lie close as Khattacks lie, Fat herds below Bonair! 10 The one I’ll shoot at twilight-tide, At dawn I’ll drive the other; The black shall mourn for hoof and hide, The white man for his brother. 11 ’Tis war, red war, I’ll give you then, War till my sinews fail; For the wrong you have done to a chief of men, And a thief of the Zukka Kheyl. 12 And if I fall to your hand afresh I give you leave for the sin, That you cram my throat with the foul pig’s flesh, And swing me in the skin!
Choose another poem