Father of a righteous nation! Save the princes of the land,
On the armed and fated nations stretch, old man, thy saving hand!
Say the word, and at thy bidding leaders of each hostile race
Not the gory field of battle, but the festive board will grace,
Robed in jewels, decked in garlands, they will quaff the ruddy wine,
Greet their foes in mutual kindness, bless thy holy name and thine!
Think, O man of many seasons! When good Pandu left this throne,
And his helpless loving orphans thou didst cherish as thine own,
'Twas thy helping steadying fingers taught their infant steps to frame,
'Twas thy loving gentle accents taught their lips to lisp each name,
As thine own they grew and blossomed, dear to thee they yet remain,
Take them back unto thy bosom, be a father once again!
Unto thee, O Dhrita-rashtra! Pandu's sons in homage bend,
And a loving peaceful message through my willing lips they send:
Tell our monarch, more than father, by his sacred stern command
We have lived in pathless jungle, wandered far from land to land,
True unto our plighted promise, for we ever felt and knew,
To his promise Dhrita-rashtra cannot, will not be untrue!
Years of anxious toil are over and of woe and bitterness,
Years of waiting and of watching, years of danger and distress.