Classic Poem

Praise be to God from me who from nothing brought me into being,
Other of his creatures He made made me not, of Adam's stock am I sprung.
In descent from father to son a follower of Mahomet am I,
In the mission of the Four Friends I am a firm believer.
Full rightly do I know that there are four divisions of the Faith,
On the sect of the Hanafis firmly my hopes I bind.
Great is the regard in my heart which he has implanted for the learned,
And but little heed has He granted me for the religious teachers of the day.
No Drunkard or Gambler or Debauchee am I,
Nor yet Judge or Lawyer, whose only thought is for gain.
The lot of the sword He gave me, by birth a Pathan am I;
Of no lineage I, lacking wealth or following,
Gory was the shroud in which my father went to his grave, and all my ancestors;
Many there were that died with them, spread o'er the world was their blood.
My father Shahbaz Khah, liberal as Hatim was he;
His heart like that of a Tiger, more skilled in the sword than Rustam.
Steadfast was he in the Law, and upright in every deed;
No reader or writer was he, yet wiser than they that are learned.
How shall I praise my grandsire, Paradise is now his abode.
Sound like Joseph was he from head to foot.
Were another mounted, he on foot was level with him;
Such was his form and stature, and his valour was in proportion;
My other grandsire was Malik Ako, who in the land of the Khataks
First gained for us the mighty place that is ours.
Thirty years have passed that my father died a Martyr,
Slain by the Eusofzaies, but with fire I harried their homes.
Other Pathans there are many, but their chiefest warrior am I;
I seize, I grant, I bind, I loose, as my pleasure moves me.
Many there are of the clans that with me have waged feuds,
But not till their head before me they had bowed did they escape from mourning;
Alone amongst all it is the Yusufzaies that have put me under obligation,
Still among the Akozaies dwells the true old Afghan spirit.
When I in the year of Aghad fell into Aurangzeb's bonds,
My family and household was left very helpless amongst them,
For many years was I imprisoned in Hindustan,
I reached my home uninjured and from the tyrant's oppression was I freed.
All who sought my death in prison every one
Have died or been ruined and impoverished, from ill have they not escaped;
Like Joseph freed from bondage, the ruler of all I became,
Unalloyed gold did I prove, the fire did not lessen my value.
Ashraf Khan is my son, who collected my scattered household,
For when I was led prisoner, my family was dispersed,
Four-and-twenty others are mine, but the greatest of all is he,
May they all prosper, God preserve them from every evil!
Already have I five grandsons, there is Afzal and Ashraf Khan,
May God prosper them, great are my hopes from them.
One real brother had I, he has passed on his way to heaven;
Two other brothers are mine, one gallant, another a coward.
My home is in Malikpur, which people call Surai,
To Lakhi on hill and on plain are scattered my house and my clan,
Twenty thousand warriors are mine, all of one blood,
All with one accord with their backs bent in my service.
What of Shamsher Khan Turin whose following is only five thousand,
No more is he to me than an unripened Turnip,
How will he rival with me on the strength of only his title?
What is the power of the Lamb to rival the might of the Lion?
Bad luck to the Yusufzaies that a Turin holds rule among them.
Were the Teal now to harry the Hawk, what fault would be found with him?
Most trusted friend was I of the Emperor Shah Jehan,
Folly was it in Aurangzeb that he dealt so hardly with me.
I can scarcely draw my breath, yet there is none that can lessen my pain;
For a wound I have in my heart that no Doctor or Ointment can heal.
How many thousand warriors have been idle for how many years,
Had my heart not been ill at ease my purpose had never thus failed me;
Should twenty years yet pass, still that object will not be accomplished,
As things are now going on, see what will result from this trouble.
That which Shumsher Khan in so many years brings about,
I in as many months would have settled right firmly the matter.
That treachery and deceit which Hayat Khan's art is.
What is there manly in that? the wiles of a woman are such,
Where is there knowledge and discernment? blind is the world indeed,
Since thus it honours a woman with the title of Chief.
This writing and letters which Hayat Khan calls the work of the Devil,
Shall ever pour curses on him from tablet and from pen;
The honest truth speak I which is well known to all,
If I am indeed no poet, what value in praise or in blame.