RANJA AND HIR : A PUNJABI BALLAD.
I'VE hung my swing upon the peepul tree. Swing high, girls ; higher still, that I may see The tassels and the turban of my love; Or, better still, perchance he may see me.
Come, fear not, Ranja dear; ah! never think That aught can harm us two. What—do you shrink, You who are written above as Hir's own love, To taste the cup whereof I bid you drink ?
Your voice is like a lute, and when you sing Of Allah's praises Heaven's own trumpets ring In answering peals that "God is One and All, Mahommed is His Prophet and His King."
Sing on, for I am listening, " Wadahu." Aye, God is One, Love; I can sing that too. God has one Prophet—and I have one love. God has no rival but himself—and you.
Have mercy, Lord of all the Seraphim : Hear Thou, great Allah, hear my daily hymn ; Rain, rain Thy mercy on Thy slave and let Ranja and Hir in Love's own ocean swim.
As worshippers in Ramazin who see The new moon's face and shout aloud with glee, Till all the pangs of hunger are forgot,— So is his name both food and drink to me.
I wander like a mad thing all forlorn, All is forgot,—the home where I was born, My friends and kinsmen whom I used to love, And Kera's kinsmen whom I always scorn.
Does Kern think that he will marry me? Does Kera dream an easy victory Over the Sigl girl? He little knows. Let Kera come and then will Kera see.
For I am Ranja's bride. This—this was writ In God's own book. You cannot cancel it Or thwart the purport of the written scroll, Alter one line or blot one little bit.
Hir must be Ranja's own, and Ranja Hir's. You shall not find on earth again their peers. Thus shall men say by all the Rivers Five, And ring our praises down the changing years.
Poet, the ballad's o'er, but where is Hir ? Where are the lovers true of yester yeas. ?
And where are you ? Beside the Western. Gots Of Multan city, a poor old blind fakir.
MULTANI.
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