Ten months Runjeet lay in Lahore—
Wah! a hero's heart is brass!
Ten months never did Chunda Kour
Braid her hair at the tiring-glass.
There came a steed from Toorkistan,
Wah! God made him to match the hawk!
Fast beside him the four grooms ran,
To keep abreast of the Toorkman's walk.
Black as the bear on Iskardoo;
Savage at heart as a tiger chained;
Fleeter than hawk that ever flew,
Never a Muslim could ride him reined.
"Runjeet Dehu! come forth from thy hold"—
Wah! ten months had rusted his chain!
"Ride this Sheitan's liver cold"—
Runjeet twisted his hand in the mane.
Runjeet sprang to the Toorkman's back,
Wah! a king on a kingly throne!
Snort, black Sheitan! till nostrils crack,
Rajah Runjeet sits, a stone.
Three times round the Maidan he rode,
Touched its neck at the Kashmeree wall,
Struck the spurs till they spirted blood,
Leapt the rampart before them all!
Breasted the waves of the blue Ravee,
Forty horsemen mounting behind,
Forty bridle-chains flung free,—
Wah! wah! better chase the wind!
Chunda Kour sate sad in Jummoo:—
Hark! what horse-hoof echoes without?
"Rise! and welcome Runjeet Dehu—
Wash the Toorkman's nostrils out!
"Forty koss he has come, my life!
Forty koss back he must carry me;
Rajah Runjeet visits his wife,
He steals no steed like an Afreedee.
"They bade me teach them how to ride—
Wah! wah! now I have taught them well!"
Chunda Kour sank low at his side!
Rajah Runjeet rode the hill.