140 



SPKCT:\rENS OF THE 



[Extra No. 



Translaiion. 



Zangi is my chief, Gwaharam my leader and friend, the owner of 

 excellent mares. I swear by your beard, by the new grown hair of your 

 face. My mare, hunter of wild asses, is sad, she will not drink water by the 

 Indus, nor eat the reeds and karjal grass of Sind. She longs for the herds 

 of wild asses of the Dasht, she longs for her own pleasant pastures, for the 

 female wild asses of the Phito/c7j Pass, and the pools full of fresh water ; 

 the sandflies and musquitos irritate her, the vermin will not let her sleep, 

 the Marwari barley is coarse to her. 



A man came from ^/iorasan, his clothes and face dirty ; he brought 

 with him loads of madder, saddle-bags of fine bhang, and bales of Kandahar 

 musk. 



He had with him a message from the Rinds, a true greeting from 

 Shiren. 



The clouds have rained on Konar, on the plain and hill-skirts of 

 Mungachar, on the pleasant slopes of Sanni. 



The pools are filled to over- flowing, (the water) trembles like the 

 leaves of the gwan-tree {Pistacia hhinjulc), and bends like joints of sugar- 

 cane. The graziers have given the word to march, the owners of the sheep 

 and goats, Mezhdar, Sahak and Yar Klian ; the housewives have tied 

 up their bundles, the camel-drivers have loaded their bales. On the hill- 

 passes of Bhawnar and Nagahii, the yellow«camels bend their knees, the 

 male camels in long strings, the women with tender feet. Shiren has 

 pitched her fair tent on the wide spreading land of Narmukh. 



Feed the sheep on dranin-grass, the goats on red-flowered gwariy/;, the 

 Einds on wheaten flour, the shepherds on curds, and the Lahris on gwan- 

 berries. 



She calls her beloved nurse and takes up an earthen cup, she goes to 

 the sweet, fresh water, and her handmaiden washes her hair. She combs 

 and smooths her hair and comes to her four-sided hut. She closes the 

 door of the hut. They plait and spread the matting, and she reclines on 

 the carpet. 



She puts her hand into her bag and takes out a silver mirror, rests it 

 on her shapely thigh and looks at her houri-like countenance. She weeps 

 ■with her tender eyes, tears drop upon her cheeks and on her variegated 

 breast-garment. Her companions and sisters assemble, fair comrades forty 

 and four; they come and sit down by her, they recline upon blankets, 

 they ask after her heart and condition. 



They say, " Why are your face and earrings uncleaned, your red and 

 blue clothes unwashed, your locks unkempt and dusty?" Weeping, she 

 pushes the women away and saj's, " Away from here, women, you are not 



