Classic Poem

A gentleman will neither eat nor rest
Until he has avenged his wrongs upon his enemy.
None will respect the man who does not respect his own honor.
A slave who has honor and pride and intelligence
Is better than his lord who has less.
One cannot reach a mountain top at one leap.
The true man walks slowly, but steadily, upwards, always upwards.
Warily he walks, but without faltering,
And finds, at the end, the elixir of life.
Days differ. One day brings pain; another cures.
But honor never changes.
What is within another's reach you, too, can reach,
Be you a gentleman.
For a gentleman holds the reins of his own fate and fancy.

He whose ancestors hewed out dominion with the sword,
Let him take up this sword. To wield it is his trade.
My son Abad Khan is brave and victorious.
He has upheld my honor and renewed the glory of my name.
May Allah grant that he rival me in living and doing.
Let his enemies, if they be wise, beware of him.
For his sword is a cobra, eager for blood.
May my other sons follow Abad Khan and obey him.
For war is a difficult trade. Only one man can be leader.

A gentleman is generous with gifts and food.
The tiger is content with the blue bull's neck,
And leaves the rest to jackal and to fox.
A single Afghan hound kills the great stag of the plains.
While yelping curs nose the village dung heaps.

I was defeated at Ganbut; but at Doda I was victorious.
High on a mountain peak, the Fort of Doda was hard to take.
It was stronger than the Fort of Kohat, with seven outer walls.
But, with Allah's help, my son Abad Khan conquered it in two days.
Great was the slaughter. Our swords bloomed like red flowers.
Far down the valley clashed the echo of Bahram's blade.
Amongst the slain the rifle smoke rose gray and thick,
Vaulting an eighth heaven above Allah's seven heavens.
The spears of my Khataks pierced the enemies' armor
As a bazaar tailor runs his needle through cloth.
The lance-wielders of my Khataks
Vanquished the tough, red-faced riders of the Bangash.
There was a great deal of body to body fighting,
Nor was there lack of arrows and snake-like daggers.
Sadar Khan is my youngest son, fifteen years of age.
Never before had he seen a battle.
But on that day he dyed his spear scarlet with blood,
Until my grief at the defeat at Ganbut left my soul.
A great stench rose from the heaps of slain
Whom our whirling swords cut to pieces at Doda.
We drove the surviving Bangash up to the peaks of Pali.
Let them now hide their blades within their scabbards.

Their lives no greater fool than he
Who leaves his own trade for another's.
A stag is fierce when the hound attacks him,
But the tiger kills him at one blow.
I would not have cut down a single almond tree in their gardens,
Had the Bangash been honorable gentlemen.
But they were dishonorable, and I punished them.
Now the little jackals are feasting on their flesh.
Such is the proper punishment for the slave
Who quarrels with his master.

At the Fort of Doda we once more filled the goblet
Which our defeat at Ganbut had emptied.
On that day we took enormous plunder:
Lovely women, splendid stallions, and fine jewels.
There was not a Khatak warrior who did not fit himself out
With the weapons and black armor of the Bangash.
There were six or seven thousand Khataks in that fight,
And all thanked Allah for their share of the loot.

The glory of this battle will spread throughout the land,
And every Afghan will be proud of us.
But when the rumor of it reaches Hindustan,
The Mogul emperor will tremble with rage.
For such a King in Islam is Aurungzeb
That only Afghan disgrace can cause him joy.

In the change from the constellation of the Lion,
In the year 2092 of the Hegira, in the month of Rajah,
On the third day after the fight of Doda, I began this poem.
Deeds recorded on paper remain for posterity to read.
That is why I wrote down the tale of this battle.

May my sons be always as victorious over their enemies
As Khushal Khan was on that day — Allah be praised!