Shake thy bangles, naughty one, in play.
“But love will catch thee while thou yet mayst dance,
And catching thee, will stay the tripping feet
That turn thee round, to meet a sudden fiery glance:
The head will whirl, the feet stand still, the heart will beat.
“Ah, Amina, thy budlike mouth awhile will sing thy song,
Ah, Amina, then turn about this way;
But love will take his toll, before so very long,
And age, that poor old hag, will have her day.”
These are not scraps and doggerel as it appears here, owing to the translator’s poor English: the originals are sweet, and go far enough to show that the nation is not devoid, as is popularly imagined, of all poetry or any idea beyond savage and insensate war and killing.