Their husbands in shrill notes heard far and wide,
That Swarga's gates are ever ready to
Receive the faithful if they bravely fall,
The flames are ready to take their proud wives,
But burning hell gapes wide for to devour
The cowards that run routed and alive;
Their maidens' sweet embrace awaits them not.
At last, upon the plains of Tálicót,
The armies met, fierce raged the battle, and
Old Ramaraj fought nobly in the field;
And Timma too wrought dreadful havoc on
The Moslems and their ranks oft shattered, but
Alas! the ever treach'rous Bukka pounced
Sudden on his own ranks; the king was slain;
His ghastly head upon a pole was shown,
And helpless and forlorn the Hindus stood;
But, ere perfidious Bukka could run with
The Moslem foes, to capture him alive,
A faithful soldier Timma called, gave him
His Chandra's jav'lin, in his steady grip
To hold, then boldly ran his body through
And instantly fell lifeless to the ground.
A faithful few the body bore, and laid
Before the orphaned and the widowed maid
Their precious charge, and soon the pyre was raised.
Then, near the flames that brightened her bright face,
Her uncle and her people shedding tears,
Her noble husband lying cold and still,
The story of her father's cruel death
Still ringing in her ears, she took farewell.