Puffing and panting, up hills steeply slanting,
Skilfully bearing the filanjàna canting,
Grumbling not at the sun’s scorching ray.
Wading through swamp and brooklet, splashing their course along,
Bounding through plain and forest, thinking the track not long.
Chattering and pattering, with tongue ever clattering,
Joyous if of it the Vazàha has a smattering;
Growling not at the rain’s stinging thong.
Pacing with even footsteps, never losing time,
Changing places racing, like the measured beat of rhyme.