Six-and-thirty bulls they drove
Through the verdant fragrant grove,
To the watered paddy field,
Brilliant 'neath the silver moon
As a mirror in the gloom,
Or at noon a brazen shield.
Turning then towards the east
Apparandra gave a feast,
Milk and rice, unto the gods.
Then unto the rising sun
Glowing like a fire begun,
Lifts his hands, his head he nods.
After that they yoke the bulls.
Each than other harder pulls,
And the ground they quickly plough.
Day by day the work goes on,
For the seed seven times is done,
Then the harrow smooths the slough.
Six times more they plough the field
Before the planting drill they wield.
This requires full thirty days.
Then a dozen blooming maids
Crowned with heavy, glossy braids,
Leave the house like happy fays.
Each one brings into the fields
An offering to the god that shields
House and home from drought and pain.
Each one lifts her tiny hands,
Before the sun a moment stands,
Offers thanks for heat and rain.
Then they pluck the tender plant,
Tie in bundles laid aslant;
Twenty bundles make a sheaf.
Next the sheaves are carried thence
To their future residence,
Where they spend their life so brief.
But they only plough a part.
Of the field to which they cart
Plants so tender and so young.
Just enough is done each day
For the plants they have to lay
There the new-made soil among.
In the following month they weed,
Mend the bunds as they have need,
Place new plants where others died.
Two months after this they wait
Till with corn the ears are freight
Near the western ocean tide.
There the Huttri feast they make
For the bounteous harvest's sake.
Spreading ever towards the east
By the Paditora Ghaut,
Gilding all the land about,
Coorg receives the Huttri feast.
To the Padinalknad shrine
Gather all the Coorgi line,
Offering praise and honor due.
There they learn the proper day
From the priest who serves alway
Iguttappa Devaru.
When at last the time has come,
And the year's great work is done
In our happy glorious land;
When the shades are growing long,
All the eager people throng
To the pleasant village Mand.
First they praise the God they love,
Thronéd high the world above.
Then the Huttri games commence,
And the evening glides away.
Singing, dancing, wrestling, they
Strive for highest excellence.
When the seventh bright day begins,
Each man for his household wins
Leaves of various sacred plants.
Five of these he ties with silk,
Then provides a pot of milk,
Ready for the festive wants.
When the evening shades draw nigh, Each the others would outvie
In a rich and splendid dress. Thus they march with song and shout, Music swimming all about,
For the harvest's fruitfulness.
First they pray that God's rich grace Still should rest upon their race.
Waiting till the gun has roared Milk they sprinkle, shouting gay, Polé! Polé! Devaré!
Multiply thy mercies, Lord!
Soon the tallest stems are shorn
Of the rich and golden corn,
Carried home with shouts and glee.
There they bind with fragrant leaves,
Hang them up beneath the eaves,
On the northwest pillar's tree.
Then at home they drink and sing,
Each one happy as a king,
Keeping every ancient way.
On the morrow young and old,
Dressed in robes of silk and gold,
Crowd the green for further play.
Here they dance upon the sward,
Sing the songs of ancient bard,
Fight with sticks in combat fierce. All display their strength and skill Wrestling, leaping, as they will;
Till with night the crowds disperse.
Last of all they meet again,
Larger meed of praise to gain,
At the district meeting-place.
There before the nad they strive,
All the former joys revive,
Adding glories to the race?
Now, my friends, my story 's done.
If you 're pleased my end is won,
And your praise you'll freely give.
If I've failed, spare not to scold.
Though I'm wrong or overbold,
Let the joyous Huttri live.
From the Coorgi. Tr. C. E. Gover.
MIDNIGHT, and yet no eye
Through all the Imperial City closed in sleep!
Behold her streets ablaze
With light that seems to kindle the red sky,
Her myriads swarming through the crowded ways!
Master and slave, old age and infancy,
All, all abroad to gaze;
Clustered with women, who throw back their veils
With unimpeded and insatiate sight
To view the funeral pomp which passes by,
As if the mournful rite
Were but to them a scene of joyance and delight.
Vainly, ye blessed twinklers of the night,
Your feeble beams ye shed,
Quenched in the unnatural light which might outstare
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