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Aise Hain Anna Hamare...
Khuskismat hain hum sare
mile hame jo Anna Hazare
Sath do milkar duniya walon
Pakar inke Har ek ishaare
Khuskismat hain hum sare
mile hame jo Anna Hazare
Diya hai maa ne ratna hame
Jo sabki aankhon ke hain tare
Desh ki khatir jee rahe jo
Aise hain Annaa hamare
Khuskismat hain hum sare
mile hame jo Anna Hazare
Hoga khatam ab bhrastachar
Anna ki ye har saans Pukare
Swarg sa sunder bane ye desh
khushiyon ke hon har or nazare
Khuskismat hain hum sare
mile hame jo Anna Hazare
Ishwar do sadbudhhi sabko
Karte gunah kyon itne sare
Rukhsat hoge duniya se “deep’’
Hoga na kuch sath tumhare
Khuskismat hain hum sare
mile hame jo Anna Hazare
poem by Deepak Kumar deep
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Tamanna(wish)
TAMANNA YE AANSU HUM PITE TO JARUR HAI
LEKIN USKA SHUKRIYA KARNA KABHI NA BHULTE HAI
MALIK HAI VO JAISA CHAHE VAISA RAKHE
HAME SIRF DUA MANGNA HAI KI VO HAME DEKHE
WE SUFFER AGONY AND PAIN WITH TEARS
BUT ALWAYS THANK ALMIGHTY FOR GRACE
HE MAY KEEP US IN ANY CONDITION AS SAVIOR AND PROTECTOR
WE CAN ONLY ASK FOR MERCY AND BLESSINGS
NAHI KOI FARIYAD KARNI HAI AUR NAHI KOI SHIKAYAT
BUS NAJRE KAYAM RAHE AUR MILTI RAHE INNAYAT
JO USE DENA HAI VO BINA MANGE HI DE DEGA
BAKI BURE KARMO KA JAWAB TO HAME HI DENA PADEGA
NOTHING TO COMPLAINOR NOTHING TO PRESENT
ONLY PRAYER FOR BLESSINGS AND GRACE
HE MAY GIVE IT EVEN WITHOUT ASKING
WE NEED TO ANSWER FOR THE ILLS COMMITED
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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An Impetuous Resolve
When little Dickie Swope's a man,
He's go' to be a Sailor;
An' little Hamey Tincher, he's
A-go' to be a Tailor:
Bud Mitchell, he's a-go' to be
A stylish Carriage-Maker;
An' when _I_ grow a grea'-big man,
I'm go' to be a Baker!
An' Dick'll buy his sailor-suit
O' Hame; and Hame'll take it
An' buy as fine a double-rigg
As ever Bud can make it:
An' nen all three'll drive roun' fer me
An' we'll drive off togevver,
A-slingin' pie-crust 'long the road
Ferever an' ferever!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Dowie Houms of Yarrow
LATE at een, drinkin' the wine,
And ere they paid the lawin',
They set a combat them between,
To fight it in the dawin'.
'O stay at hame, my noble lord!
O stay at hame, my marrow!
My cruel brother will you betray,
On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.'
'O fare ye weel, my lady gay!
O fare ye weel, my Sarah!
For I maun gae, tho' I ne'er return
Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow.'
She kiss'd his cheek, she kamed his hair,
As she had done before, O;
She belted on his noble brand,
An' he 's awa to Yarrow.
O he 's gane up yon high, high hill--
I wat he gaed wi' sorrow--
An' in a den spied nine arm'd men,
I' the dowie houms o' Yarrow.
'O are ye come to drink the wine,
As ye hae doon before, O?
Or are ye come to wield the brand,
On the dowie banks o' Yarrow?'
'I am no come to drink the wine,
As I hae don before, O,
But I am come to wield the brand,
On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.'
Four he hurt, an' five he slew,
On the dowie houms o' Yarrow,
Till that stubborn knight came him behind,
An' ran his body thorrow.
'Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John,
An' tell your sister Sarah
To come an' lift her noble lord,
Who 's sleepin' sound on Yarrow.'
'Yestreen I dream'd a dolefu' dream;
I ken'd there wad be sorrow;
I dream'd I pu'd the heather green,
On the dowie banks o' Yarrow.'
She gaed up yon high, high hill--
I wat she gaed wi' sorrow--
An' in a den spied nine dead men,
On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.
She kiss'd his cheek, she kamed his hair,
As oft she did before, O;
She drank the red blood frae him ran,
On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.
'O haud your tongue, my douchter dear,
For what needs a' this sorrow?
I'll wed you on a better lord
Than him you lost on Yarrow.'
'O haud your tongue, my father dear,
An' dinna grieve your Sarah;
A better lord was never born
Than him I lost on Yarrow.
'Tak hame your ousen, tak hame your kye,
For they hae bred our sorrow;
I wiss that they had a' gane mad
When they cam first to Yarrow.'
Sir Hugh; Or The Jew's Daughter
Four-and-twenty bonny boys
Were playing at the ba,
And by it came him sweet Sir Hugh,
And he playd o'er them a'.
He kickd the ba with his right foot
And catchd it wi his knee,
And throuch-and-thro the Jew's window
He gard the bonny ba flee.
He's doen him to the Jew's castell
And walkd it round about;
And there he saw the Jew's daughter,
At the window looking out.
'Throw down the ba, ye Jew's daughter,
Throw down the ba to me!'
'Never a bit,' says the Jew's daughter,
'Till up to me come ye.'
'How will I come up? How can I come up?
How can I come to thee?
For as ye did to my auld father,
The same ye'll do to me.'
She's gane till her father's garden,
And pu'd an apple red and green;
'Twas a' to wyle him sweet Sir Hugh,
And to entice him in.
She's led him in through ae dark door,
And sae has she thro nine;
She's laid him on a dressing-table,
And stickit him like a swine.
And first came out the thick, thick blood,
And syne came out the thin;
And syne came out the bonny heart's blood;
There was nae mair within.
She's rowd him in a cake o lead,
Bade him lie still and sleep;
She's thrown him in Our Lady's draw-well,
Was fifty fathom deep.
When bells were rung, and mass was sung,
And a' the bairns came hame,
When every lady gat hame her son,
The Lady Maisry gat nane.
She's taen her mantle her about,
Her coffer by the hand,
And she's gane out to seek her son,
And wandered o'er the land.
She's doen her to the Jew's castell,
Where a' were fast asleep:
'Gin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh,
I pray you to me speak.'
'Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear,
Prepare my winding-sheet,
And at the back o merry Lincoln
The morn I will you meet.'
Now Lady Maisry is gane hame,
Make him a winding-sheet,
And at the back o merry Lincoln,
The dead corpse did her meet.
And a the bells o merry Lincoln
Without men's hands were rung,
And a' the books o merry Lincoln
Were read without man's tongue,
And neer was such a burial
Sin Adam's days begun.
poem by Andrew Lang
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The Oubit
It was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang,
A feckless hairy oubit, and merrily he sang-
'My Minnie bad me bide at hame until I won my wings;
I show her soon my soul's aboon the warks o' creeping things.'
This feckless hairy oubit cam' hirpling by the linn,
A swirl o' wind cam' doun the glen, and blew that oubit in:
Oh when he took the water, the saumon fry they rose,
And tigg'd him a' to pieces sma', by head and tail and toes.
Tak' warning then, young poets a', by this poor oubit's shame;
Though Pegasus may nicher loud, keep Pegasus at hame.
Oh haud your hands frae inkhorns, though a' the Muses woo;
For critics lie, like saumon fry, to mak' their meals o' you.
Eversley, 1851.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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Chairity begins at hame, but shouldna end there.
Better be freends at a distance than enemies at hame.
Quhen the good-wife is fra hame, the keys are tint.
Quhen the good-man is fra hame, the board-cloth is tint.
Tree Plantation Ped lagayen, Paryawaran bachayen
Vrikash paryawaran ki shan hain
Vrikashon ko na katen hum
Ped lagayen, paryawaran bachyen
Vrikash hamari jaan hain.
Vrikash lagana acchi baat hai
Par Vrikash ki rakasha bhi Karen
Apne swarth ki khatir
Ped kaatna galat baat hai.
Ped pradushan se hame bachte
Ped hi barish late hain
Ped hi sunder fal hain dete
Aur hamari sehat banate.
Ped hamari khatir jeete
Kitna bada hai unka upkar
Khud sahkar dhoop aur toofan
Dete hame thandi bayar(Hawa) .
Vrikash hamare bade kimti
Inhe yun hi na barbad Karen
“Deep” eke k ped lagakar
Ghar apna aabaad Karen.
poem by Deepak Kumar deep
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The Elphin Nourrice
I heard a cow low, a bonnie cow low,
An' a cow low down in yon glen;
Lang, lang will my young son greet,
Or his mither bid him come ben.
I heard a cow low, a bonnie cow low,
An' a cow low down in yon fauld;
Lang, lang will my young son greet,
Or is mither take him frae cauld.
Waken, Queen of Elfan,
An hear your Nourrice moan.
O moan ye for your meat,
Or moan ye for your fee,
Or moan ye for the ither bounties
That ladies are wont to gie?
I moan na for my meat,
Nor yet for my fee,
But I mourn for Christened land--
It's there I fain would be.
O nurse my bairn, Nourice, she says,
Till he stan' at your knee,
An' ye's win hame to Christen land,
Whar fain it's ye wad be.
O keep my bairn, Nourice,
Till he gang by the hauld,
An' ye's win hame to your young son,
Ye left in four nights auld.
poem by Andrew Lang
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Hame jo yaad nahi...I don't rememebr
Hame jo yaad nahi uski aap yaad dilate hai
Manhus thi vo raat jo humko barbar rulati hai
Hamne kya kya nahi kaha tha aapse
Aap to hamara vajud hi bhuld gaye dilse
I had forgotten it all but you reminded
About the fateful night of tears that had blinded
What had I not promised you for the life?
You refused to everything to become bride
Aapka sochna durasta tha
Per hamra khyal bhi galat nahi tha
Aapne hame najrose upper utha liya tha
Fir aaise hi kyo jamin per patak diya
You were perfect in match with thought
But I too was not wrongly caught
You raised me high up to excel
Only to bring down at ground level
Aapne kaha chand aur tare kahan milte hai
Andheri rat me sirf sitare hi chamkete hai
Un dhundhli yaddoko yaad karne se kya faida
Jo hame kuchh bhi na de sake vo kaisa hai vada
You had thought about ill fate of stars and moon
Only stars twinkle often and remain there on
What is use of keeping all those sweet memories?
If that can’t give us anything sans worries
Dost hote nahi bichhdne ke liye
Per hote hai ek dusre per jaan chhidkne ke liye
Waqt ka takaja yehi hai ki aap hamara daman pakad le
Duniya walonki nigah se bachhe aur unki jaban ko tala lagale
Friends are meant to be deserted
But always loyal and to be asserted
Situation demands that you hold my hand
Show the world with move and force them to change trend
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The Dowie Dens Of Yarrow
Late at e'en, drinking the wine,
And ere they paid the lawing,
They set a combat them between,
To fight it in the dawing.
'Oh, stay at hame, my noble lord,
Oh, stay at hame, my marrow!
My cruel brother will you betray
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.'
'Oh, fare ye weel, my ladye gaye!
Oh, fare ye weel, my Sarah!
For I maun gae, though I ne'er return,
Frae the dowie banks of Yarrow.'
She kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair,
As oft she had done before, O;
She belted him with his noble brand,
And he's away to Yarrow.
As he gaed up the Tennies bank,
I wot he gaed wi' sorrow,
Till, down in a den, he spied nine arm'd men,
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.
'Oh, come ye here to part your land,
The bonnie Forest thorough?
Or come ye here to wield your brand,
On the dowie houms of Yarrow?'
'I come not here to part my land,
And neither to beg nor borrow;
I come to wield my noble brand,
On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.
'If I see all, ye're nine to ane;
An that's an unequal marrow:
Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand,
On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.'
Four has he hurt, and five has slain,
On the bloody braes of Yarrow;
Till that stubborn knight came him behind,
And ran his body thorough.
'Gae hame, gae hame, good-brother John,
And tell your sister Sarah,
To come and lift her leafu' lord;
He's sleepin' sound on Yarrow.'
'Yestreen I dream'd a dolefu' dream;
I fear there will be sorrow!
I dream'd I pu'd the heather green,
Wi' my true love, on Yarrow.
'O gentle wind, that bloweth south,
From where my love repaireth,
Convey a kiss from his dear mouth,
And tell me how he fareth!
'But in the glen strive armed men;
They've wrought me dole and sorrow;
They've slain--the comeliest knight they've slain--
He bleeding lies on Yarrow.'
As she sped down yon high, high hill,
She gaed wi' dole and sorrow,
And in the den spied ten slain men,
On the dowie banks of Yarrow.
She kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair,
She search'd his wounds all thorough,
She kiss'd them, till her lips grew red,
On the dowie houms of Yarrow.
'Now, haud your tongue, my daughter dear!
For a' this breeds but sorrow;
I'll wed ye to a better lord
Than him ye lost on Yarrow.'
'Oh, haud your tongue, my father dear!
Ye mind me but of sorrow:
A fairer rose did never bloom
Than now lies cropp'd on Yarrow.'
poem by Andrew Lang
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