My greetings to the Bey of Bolu!
Let him lean against these hills,
And let the echoes then resound
With the arrow that whistle, the mace that kils!
The foe is gathering, row on row,
Upon our brows the sign of death,
The rifle is here, valours diminshed,
The curved sword rests within its sheath.
Stil Köroğlu has his renown!
Many will leave the battleground
While his grey mare froths are the mouth
And enemy blood spills all around.
(Translated by Nermin Menemencioğlu, 101Poems by 101Poets An Anthology of Turkish Poetry)