SUN and moon the seasons make, | |
| Rule o’er all the sky they take. | |
| God is Lord of heaven and earth. | |
| All the joyous earnest toil | |
| Happy ryots give the soil, | 5 |
| Our rich land is fully worth. | |
| |
| Famous Jambudwipa’s bounds | |
| Circle many fertile grounds; | |
| Which among them is the best? | |
| Far above the highest hill, | 10 |
| Mahameru’s snows are still | |
| Showing where the saints are blest. | |
| |
| Midst the beauteous forest-trees | |
| Brightest to the eye that sees | |
| Is the brilliant Sampigè. | 15 |
| Sweeter than the sweetest rose, | |
| Purer than the mountain snows, | |
| Better than mere words may say;— | |
| |
| Thus is Coorg the noblest land, | |
| Rich and bright as golden band | 20 |
| On the neck where youth doth stay. | |
| In this happy lovely realm | |
| No misfortunes overwhelm. | |
| Live and prosper while you may! | |
| |
| Now my friends with one accord, | 25 |
| Joyous on the verdant sward, | |
| Sing we our dear country’s praise. | |
| Tell us then, from first to last, | |
| All the wondrous glories past, | |
| Trolling out a hundred lays. | 30 |
| |
| Like a robe of precious silk, | |
| Green or golden, white as milk,— | |
| Like the image in a glass,— | |
| Bright as shines the sun at noon, | |
| Or at night the silver moon,— | 35 |
| Sweet as fields with flowers and grass,— | |
| |
| Thus in happiness and peace, | |
| Riches knowing no decrease, | |
| Apparandra lived at ease. | |
| In this glorious land he dwelt, | 40 |
| Forest-girt as with a belt, | |
| Coorg the blesséd, green with trees. | |
| |
| Soon he said within his heart,— | |
| “Now ’s the time to do our part, | |
| For the tilling of the field. | 45 |
| Sow we must, and speed the plough, | |
| Dig and plant, spare no toil now, | |
| Harvest then the ground will yield.” | |
| |
| Thus he said, to Mysore went, | |
| To her fairs his steps he bent, | 50 |
| Where the country met the town. | |
| Thirty-six great bulls he bought | |
| Of the best and largest sort; | |
| White and black, and some red-brown. | |
| |
| Nandi, Mudda were one pair, | 55 |
| Bullocks both of beauty rare. | |
| Yoked together were two more; | |
| Choma, Kicha were they called. | |
| With them was their leader stalled, | |
| Kale, best among two score. | 60 |
| |
| Then did Apparandra say,— | |
| “All my bulls will useless stay | |
| If I give not tools and plough. | |
| Know ye why they worked so well? | |
| No? then listen as I tell | 65 |
| How he made those we have now. | |
| |
| Choosing sago for the pole, | |
| At the end he made a hole; | |
| Pushed the palm-wood handle through. | |
| Sampigé was for the share, | 70 |
| On its edge he placed with care | |
| Iron plates to make the shoe. | |
| |
| Sharp as tiger’s claws the nail | |
| Fixing to the share its mail. | |
| Yoke and pins he made of teak. | 75 |
| Strongly tied the whole with cane | |
| Strong and lithe as any chain; | |
| Other strings would be too weak. | |
| |
| When, in June, the early rain | |
| Poured upon the earth and main, | 80 |
| Sweet as honey from the bee, | |
| All the fields became as mud, | |
| Fit for plough and hoe and spud, | |
| Far as e’er the eye could see. | |
| |
| Then before the break of day, | 85 |
| Ere the cock began his say, | |
| Or the sun had gilt the sky, | |
| In the morning still and calm, | |
| Twelve stout slaves who tilled the farm, | |
| Roused the bullocks tethered nigh. | 90 |
| |
| Six-and-thirty bulls they drove | |
| Through the verdant fragrant grove, | |
| To the watered paddy field, | |
| Brilliant ’neath the silver moon | |
| As a mirror in the gloom, | 95 |
| Or at noon a brazen shield. | |
| |
| Turning then towards the east | |
| Apparandra gave a feast, | |
| Milk and rice, unto the gods. | |
| Then unto the rising sun | 100 |
| Glowing like a fire begun, | |
| Lifts his hands, his head he nods. | |
| |
| After that they yoke the bulls. | |
| Each than other harder pulls, | |
| And the ground they quickly plough. | 105 |
| Day by day the work goes on, | |
| For the seed seven times is done, | |
| Then the harrow smooths the slough. | |
| |
| Six times more they plough the field | |
| Before the planting drill they wield. | 110 |
| This requires full thirty days. | |
| Then a dozen blooming maids | |
| Crowned with heavy, glossy braids, | |
| Leave the house like happy fays. | |
| |
| Each one brings into the fields | 115 |
| An offering to the god that shields | |
| House and home from drought and pain. | |
| Each one lifts her tiny hands, | |
| Before the sun a moment stands, | |
| Offers thanks for heat and rain. | 120 |
| |
| Then they pluck the tender plant, | |
| Tie in bundles laid aslant; | |
| Twenty bundles make a sheaf. | |
| Next the sheaves are carried thence | |
| To their future residence, | 125 |
| Where they spend their life so brief. | |
| |
| But they only plough a part | |
| Of the field to which they cart | |
| Plants so tender and so young. | |
| Just enough is done each day | 130 |
| For the plants they have to lay | |
| There the new-made soil among. | |
| |
| In the following month they weed, | |
| Mend the bunds as they have need, | |
| Place new plants where others died. | 135 |
| Two months after this they wait | |
| Till with corn the ears are freight | |
| Near the western ocean tide. | |
| |
| There the Huttri feast they make | |
| For the bounteous harvest’s sake. | 140 |
| Spreading ever towards the east | |
| By the Paditora Ghaut, | |
| Gilding all the land about, | |
| Coorg receives the Huttri feast. | |
| |
| To the Padinalknad shrine | 145 |
| Gather all the Coorgi line, | |
| Offering praise and honor due. | |
| There they learn the proper day | |
| From the priest who serves alway | |
| Iguttappa Devaru. | 150 |
| |
| When at last the time has come, | |
| And the year’s great work is done | |
| In our happy glorious land; | |
| When the shades are growing long, | |
| All the eager people throng | 155 |
| To the pleasant village Mand. | |
| |
| First they praise the God they love, | |
| Thronéd high the world above. | |
| Then the Huttri games commence, | |
| And the evening glides away. | 160 |
| Singing, dancing, wrestling, they | |
| Strive for highest excellence. | |
| |
| When the seventh bright day begins, | |
| Each man for his household wins | |
| Leaves of various sacred plants. | 165 |
| Five of these he ties with silk, | |
| Then provides a pot of milk, | |
| Ready for the festive wants. | |
| |
| When the evening shades draw nigh, | |
| Each the others would outvie | 170 |
| In a rich and splendid dress. | |
| Thus they march with song and shout, | |
| Music swimming all about, | |
| For the harvest’s fruitfulness. | |
| |
| First they pray that God’s rich grace | 175 |
| Still should rest upon their race. | |
| Waiting till the gun has roared | |
| Milk they sprinkle, shouting gay, | |
| Polé! Polé! Devaré! | |
| Multiply thy mercies, Lord! | 180 |
| |
| Soon the tallest stems are shorn | |
| Of the rich and golden corn, | |
| Carried home with shouts and glee. | |
| There they bind with fragrant leaves, | |
| Hang them up beneath the eaves, | 185 |
| On the northwest pillar’s tree. | |
| |
| Then at home they drink and sing, | |
| Each one happy as a king, | |
| Keeping every ancient way. | |
| On the morrow young and old, | 190 |
| Dressed in robes of silk and gold, | |
| Crowd the green for further play. | |
| |
| Here they dance upon the sward, | |
| Sing the songs of ancient bard, | |
| Fight with sticks in combat fierce. | 195 |
| All display their strength and skill | |
| Wrestling, leaping, as they will; | |
| Till with night the crowds disperse. | |
| |
| Last of all they meet again, | |
| Larger meed of praise to gain, | 200 |
| At the district meeting-place. | |
| There before the nad they strive, | |
| All the former joys revive, | |
| Adding glories to the race? | |
| |
| Now, my friends, my story ’s done. | 205 |
| If you ’re pleased my end is won, | |
| And your praise you ’ll freely give. | |
| If I ’ve failed, spare not to scold. | |
| Though I ’m wrong or overbold, | |
| Let the joyous Huttri live. | 210 |
| |
