The boat has gone down on the flood of the Nerbudda; the fisherwoman is weeping for her husband.
She has no bangles on her arm nor necklace on her neck; she has no beauty, but seeks her lovers throughout the village.
Bread from the girdle, curry from the lota; let us go, beloved, the moon is shining.
The leaves of gram have been plucked from the plants; I think much on Dadaria, but she does not come.
The love of a stranger is as a dream; think not of him, beloved, he cannot be yours.
Twelve has struck and it is thirteen time (past the time of labour); oh, overseer, let your poor labourers go.
The betel-leaf is pressed in the mouth (and gives pleasure); attractive eyes delight the heart.
Catechu, areca and black cloves; my heart’s secret troubles me in my dreams.
The Nerbudda came and swept away the rubbish (from the works); fly away, bees, do not perch on my cloth.
The colour does not come on the wheat; her youth is passing, but she cannot yet drape her cloth on her body.