“Then, catching them all unprepared, a wind arose and blew,
And cast away their ropes of foliage, their glory overthrew.
“And tore their leaves asunder, stripping off their raiment green
So poured away their gaudy glory, and left their stature mean.
“And where the autumn’s gorgeous temples stood, was left forlorn
A melancholy company of mourners with garments rent and torn.”
An old song of the Mukri:—
“A three-fold anklet jingles in thy skirt,
Ah, Amina, then turn about this way;
Dancing forward, rustling here and there, O flirt,