That night over the water, where strange new buildings were fast rising and where new-planted flowers and shrubs were thriving so fast in the kindly rains that already the townspeople, marvelling at the growing beauty, called the place Kâbul, the revels were fast and furious, and Babar, before he got miserably drunk, gained loud applause for a song he had just translated from the Hindi. It ran as follows:
"Oh! Watchman of night, awake!
For the dawning is nigh;
The black bees hum as their way they take
Through the lightening sky.
Oh! far away in the jasmine bowers,
The robbers will rifle the honey-flowers.
Watchman! Awake! Awake!
Oh, watch of the night, arise!
For the windows unclose;
A blue gown hung with pearl-fringing lies
On a bosom of rose.
Oh! close at hand in the old man's tower
The lovers will wanton a happy hour.
Watchman! Arise! Arise!
Oh, rouse thee, watchman, rouse!
Lo! the rain of night is past!
Her veil is dank, 'neath her level brows
The heavy tears fall fast.
Oh, far away lies her lovers part
And close at hand lies her broken heart.
Oh! Watchman, rouse thee, rouse!"
"Tis a rare song," hiccupped Jân-Ali, "but devil take me if I can tell what it means."
"Tis the tale of a wanton," quoth Târdi-Beg gravely, "and see you, she wore a blue gown fringed with pearl."
Babar looked at them both with irritation.
"Before the Lord!" he said almost sharply, "I know not which is best; understanding, or the lack of it."
Then he burst into a roar of laughter.
"They be merry devils over in Kâbul," quoth a surly-faced cook in the royal kitchen. "Mayhap they may laugh the wrong side of their mouths ere long."