Classic Poem

Come and listen to my story,
Good and bad is told in it;
Warning it contains and counsel,
Let the wise take note of this.
I am Khush-hal, son of Shahbaz;
Of a warrior race I am sprung.
Shahbaz Khan was Yahya Khan's son,
Few so active and so bold.
Akoray's son was Yahya Khan,
Master of the sword was he;
Skilful was he with the sword,
With the bow excelled be more.
Once his eye had marked his foe,
Soon his place was in the grave.
Ready ever for fight or banquet,
Kind was he and generous.
Under the constellation was he born
Which gives birth to noble men.
Not yet entered in the world
The priests had long foretold his birth.
In the Emperor Akbar's reign
He became chief of his clan.
Those who sat with him at table
All like lions were fierce and bold.
Stained with blood the grave received them,
All his officers and chiefs.
Numerous was his family with him,
All brave hardy warriors they;
Of one mind in all their actions,
Jealous each of fame and name.
The thousand and twenty-second year of the Hejra
It was that to this world I came.
Fifty years had he completed
When was mariyred Shahbaz Khan.
The Emperor of his time was he,
That discerning Shah Jehan.
To me he gave my father's place,
Of my tribe was I the chief.
Were it war or gifts they wanted,
Lacking they found nought in me.
Thirty thousand Khataks mine,
Each one to my word intent.
All my wealth I spent on armies,
Or the feeding of my guests.
Had I a hundred in my house,
A thousand went on feasts and sport.
Every Khatsk in my Chiefship
Famous was throughout the world.
Did I find one low in trouble,
Raised I him aloft in joy.
Every sort of entertainment
To my fill I revelled in;
Were it horsemanship or hawking,
Or the garden's peaceful joys.
Gold I counted in my eyes
As the dust of the desert.
He whose thought is on his honour,
Soon that gallant becomes poor.
Yet from the Emperor Aurungzeeb
Full vengeance took I for his bonds.
The sword's impress I printed clear
Alike on Hind and Mussulman.
Why should I, though, boast myself?
Others let them tell the tale.
The Emperor's bitter foe am I,
Whether my path through hill or plain.
The Pathan's honour, dear to me,
Though they have joined the Moguls;
Like the dogs they stray about
Seeking for the Mogul's scraps.
Now of seventy years I am
In the month of Ramzan.