You all know that in certain parts of our country the farmers are in the habit of shifting their hamlets from time to time, according to the seasons.
In winter time they go to live in the big villages, and in the summer they dwell in the fields near to their crops.
One summer-day a Farmer was ploughing his ground, which was situated not far from a “kuburistan” or burial ground, and a Revenue Sowar came up and accosted him, and asked if the Farmer would direct him to a village where the people were altogether, in order that the rents might be collected. “The only place that I know of,” said the Farmer, “where they keep together, is in that place,” pointing to the burial ground. “This,” said the Sowar, “is no answer, sir, to my question. What do you mean?” and roundly abused the Farmer, and struck him with his “chabūk” or whip.
“Well,” said the Farmer, “it is quite true; whenever anyone goes to that place he never moves again, but we farmers always move from place to place, according to the seasons.” The Revenue Sowar was a little impressed by his attempt at wit, and was about to ride off, but overhearing the Farmer saying something audibly, he listened, and these were his words:
Hurri thi mun bhurri thi
Motian se jhuri thi
Rajah ji ke bâgh men
Dushalla orêe khurri thi.
TRANSLATION.
It was green and full