"He (his moustache twirled) called to her aloud,
'Give me a buss, lass! Lo! your lips are red.'
She (her bright hair curled) spoke him back full proud,
'Give me a gold piece, merry sir,' she said.
'Merry sir,' she said, etc.
'Lass! I would give thee golden fee galore,
But my purse, alas! is in wallet tan
Of the saddle bag my swift camel bore,
And, see you, my dear, that's still at Karuwân,
Still at Karuwân,' etc.
'Lad! I would buss you, were my lips but free,
Only, as you see, they won't ope a span,
Mother locked my teeth! Mother keeps the key,
Mother (like thy camel) 's still at Karuwân,
Still at Karuwân.
Mother (like thy camel) 's still at Karuwân.'"
The endless refrain went on and on sillily, mingled with the twanging of the cithâras and boisterous laughter.
It was a roaring night, and Babar, for once blind-drunk, fell asleep at last among his cushions. The others had been carried back to their several tents, so, when he roused to the crow of a cock he was alone save for drowsy servants.
But half-sober, he sat up and listened gravely.