Woe to you poor Armenian people!
Without a fault and without a reason ye have been scattered;
Ye are gone into slavery to Khorassan,
Hungry and thirsty and naked and poor.

Ye have supported a hundred thousand sorrows,
And ye have never put your foot out of your sweet native country,
But now ye leave the tombs of your parents,
And abandon to others your churches and houses.

These beautiful fields, great towns,
Sweet waters and well-built villages,
To whom have ye left them, ye who go?
How happens it that ye forget them?

I fear they will be effaced from your mind.
But while ye live do not forget them,
At least recount to your children and grandchildren,
That you have left your country so ruined.

The name of Massis, that of Noah's Ark,
That of the plain of Ararat, of St. Etchmiadzin,
That of the deep Abyss, of Saint Lance and mooghni
They will not forget till the day of judgement.

That my eyes had been blind, my neck broken
Poor Armenia, that I might not see thee thus!
If I were dead I should be happy,
Rather than live and see thee!