And in the very presence of our king,
  Who well rewards the val’rous and the brave,
  The place of honour I will there attain
  For courage true, and prove once more before
  The world I am a worthy husband of
  A noble wife; so let me now depart.” 
  She made reply—­“Some evil it forebodes
  That Bukkaraj should thus be madly told
  To join our ranks, for what is truth and God
  To one so steeped in sin?  And sad it is
  My aged father goes with him to fight. 
  Trust not in him and keep a steady eye
  On him, e’en if within the thickest of
  The fight thou art, for any moment he
  May turn the tide of war; fight till the last,
  And, if thou comest back victorious from
  The field, I’ll be the first to welcome thee,
  But, if thou fallest fighting in the field,
  Or if, perhaps, it chances otherwise,
  Thou art left helpless and alone, here is
  Our ever ready jav’lin to kill thee. 
  Thy body forthwith shall be nobly borne
  Unto the pyre by thine own faithful men,
  And I will gladly leap upon the flames. 
  But if thou comest routed and alive,
  Then Chandra nevermore shall see thy face.” 
  At early morn, upon th’ appointed day,
  The king his faithful servants summoned, and
  Before them all his only brother named
  To rule the kingdom and confided all
  His subjects to his care; then, at the head
  Of his brave troops, out of the city marched,
  Amidst the royal bards recounting in
  Sweet tones the glories of his kingdom’s past,
  His holy priests invoking Krishna’s help
  And chanting sacred hymns, and in the midst
  Of maidens of the martial Kshatrya race,
  Proceeding to the very city gates,
  And singing to their fathers, brothers, and
  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 Talicot,
  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