Wretched exiles, rare survivors
Of a brave and martyr race,
Children of a captive mother,
Heroes with no resting place,
Far from home in squalid hovels,
Sick and pale from lack of sleep,
See them drink to drown their sorrows,
Hear them sing and singing, weep!
Drink… For drunkenness erases
Former troubles, present woes,
Bitter memories effaces,
Gives a broken heart repose.
Heads grow heavier, a mother’s
Look of anguish disappears
And a son’s appeal is smothered,
For the mind no longer hears.
Winter winds intone a descant,
Terrifyingly they swirl,
Whirl and lift the song rebellious,
Carry it across the world.
Fouler still the sky is seething,
Chillier the frowning night,
Ever louder the Armenians
Sing, the storm attains its height…
Thus they drink and sink… Survivors
Of a brave and martyr race,
Children of a captive mother,
Heroes with no resting place.
Far from home, barefoot and ragged,
In slum squalor shorn of sleep,
See them drink to ease the agony,
Hear them sing and, singing, weep!
--- P. Yavorov (1900)