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Rust adorns thee, sword, and mould'ring
Is thy scabbard once so fine.
Where's thy master's arm of iron,
Where's that flashing gleam of thine?'

"On the fatal plain of Shamkor,
He fell dead, with many a wound,
And his blood flowed like a torrent,
Dyeing red the battle ground.

Though he fell beneath the struggle
With the deadly enemy,
Valiant were his deeds and dauntless.
Matchless was his bravery

Foremost was he in the battle,
Smiting, hewing down the foe.
Georgia and a soldier's honour
Made him bear the crushing blow.

I, who proudly fought for freedom,
Now am pawned or sold for gold,
A bartered thing to crown the downfall
Of my country's pride of old.

Many years have passed since
Georgia's Son did whet me till I flashed,
Rendered sharp my blade so deadly,
And with me to battle dashed

Nor have I heard sounds of trumpets,
Nor the shouts of victory...
I have passed an age thus hanging
Here in rust and slavery."

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