Classic Poem

What is man, and what his fortune?
Everything is ruled by Fate.
Were all the world a sharpened sword,
All men on thy death intent,
Without fate thou wilt not die
By the sword nor yet by bullet.
Without fate there comes not death!
Wield the sword then, have no fear;
As the youthful warrior's actions,
Such are not wrought by the old.
The soldier martyred for the faith
Has no fear for Hell hereafter.
The Rose is ever the Bee's prey,
Whether in Cabul or Cashmere.
A hero he whose deeds are chanted,
Whether in songs or funeral dirge.
The sword's lot is thine, Khush-hal,
By descent thou art used to it.
For seven generations before thee
Died thy sires by sword and bullet.
Thus I do not wish to praise myself,
True my speech, as all well know.