Three Songs of the East

Call on Rama ! call to Rama !
Oh, my brothers, call on Rama !
  For this Dead
  Whom we bring,
Call aloud to mighty Rama !

As we bear him, oh, my brothers,
Call together, very loudly,
  That the Bhûts
  May be scared;
That his spirit pass in comfort.

Turn his feet now, calling "Rama,"
Calling "Rama," who shall take him
  When the flames
  Make an end:
Ram ! Ram ! -- oh, call to Rama ! 

Come forth, oh, Snake! come forth, oh, glittering Snake!
Oh shining, lovely, deadly Nâg! appear,
Dance to the music that we make,
      This serpent-song, so sweet and clear,
      Blown on the beaded gourd, so clear,
                So soft and clear.

Oh, dread Lord Snake! come forth and spread thy hood,
And drink the milk and suck the eggs; and show
Thy tongue; and own the tune is good:
      Hear, Maharaj! how hard we blow!
      Ah, Maharaj! for thee we blow;
                See how we blow!

Great Uncle Snake! creep forth and dance to-day!
This music is the music snakes love best;
Taste the warm white new milk, and play
      Standing erect, with fangs at rest,
      Dancing on end, sharp fangs at rest,
                Fierce fangs at rest.

Ah, wise Lord Nâg! thou comest!--Fear thou not!
We make salaam to thee, the Serpent-King,
Draw forth thy folds, knot after knot;
      Dance, Master! while we softly sing;
      Dance, Serpent! while we play and sing,
                We play and sing.

Dance, dreadful King! whose kisses strike men dead;
Dance this side, mighty Snake! the milk is here!

(They seize the Cobra by the neck)

Ah, shabash! pin his angry head!
      Thou fool! this nautch shall cost thee dear;
      Wrench forth his fangs! this piping clear,
               It costs thee dear!

Turn the merry mill-stone, Gunga!
  Pour the golden grain in;
Those that twist the Churrak fastest
  The cakes soonest win:
    Good stones, turn!
    The fire begins to burn;
    Gunga, stay not!
    The hearth is nearly hot.
Grind the hard gold to silver;
  Sing quick to the stone;
Feed its mouth with dal and bajri,
  It will feed us anon.

Sing, Gunga! to the mill-stone,
  It helps the wheel hum;
Blithesome hearts and willing elbows
  Make the fine meal come:
    Handsful three
    For you and for me;
    Now it falls white,
    Good stones, bite!
Drive it round and round, my Gunga!
  Sing soft to the stone;
Better corn and churrak-working
  Than idleness and none.