IF my white hair could once again be black,
And my old strength return to me at need,
And if I could become a valiant youth,
With sword in hand, upon a fiery steed;
I to the field of Avarair would go,
Field where Armenian blood rained down like dew.
O my loved nation, Thorkom’s ancient race !
I would give back your long-lost crown to you.
To the Armenian maidens I would say:
' Sell now your costly garments beautiful;
Put by adornment, luxury, and pearls;
Our swords are rusty, and their blades are dull.
' Give us your muslin robes, Armenian maids,
That we our bleeding wounds may stanch and stay;
Weave bandages for us of your thick hair;
’ T is thus you need to show? your love to-day.'
Were I a rich man, in whose coffers deep
The gold and silver to great heaps had grown,
I would not be, as many are, alas !
A patriot in vain words, and words alone.
Not bright champagne, nor Russia’s crystal cross,
But store of balls and powder I would buy;
Against Armenia’s foemen I would go
With a great host, freely and fearlessly.
Or if I were a nation’s potent king,
I to my army would give strong command
To march with fleet steps toward Armenia,
To help the poor oppressed Armenian land.
But if for one brief day, one little hour,
One moment’s space, I were the Lord of all,
What a sharp spear at our blood-thirsty foes
I with strong arm would hurl, and make them fall!
guileful Russian ! Base and vicious Turk !
O vengeful Persian! O fanatic Greek,
Armenia’s age-long rival! On your sons
My two-edged sword should righteous vengeance wreak!