Classic Poem

Whom dost thou seek, sweet mother?
Come, tremble not, draw near!
Gaze on thy son's blood-streaming wounds
Without a sigh or tear.
Let Turkish mothers rend their hair;
Do thou glad news to Zeitoun bear!

As, by my cradle, thou didst soothe
With tender hand and smile
My childish form to sleep, and sing
With angel voice the while,
Lay me to rest, without a care,
And joyful news to Zeitoun bear!

Red floods are welling from my wounds,
But, mother, look around;
See how the fierce blood-thirsty Turks
By thousands strew the ground!
Our swords devoured them, scattered there;
Then joyful news to Zeitoun bear!

They smote us like a dragon,
With sudden roaring deep;
But Zeitoun shook her rocky head,
And rolled them down the steep.
Red was the stain our rocks did wear;
Then joyful news to Zeitoun bear!

Our fathers' ghosts applauded;
Our old fire is not dead!
Our slaughtered kin rejoiced to see
The blood of vengeance shed.
Mount Ararat the joy did share;
Mother, glad news to Zeitoun bear!

Take my last kiss, my mother,
And bear it to my love;
A kiss, too, for my native soil,
That now my tomb must prove.
Plant thou a cross above me there,
And joyful news to Zeitoun bear!