SUR PIRBHATI

CANTO I
1
‘Tis not the way of minstrel;
that hang you harp on the nail,
How with the Gracious Dawn
O you dare pick out a quarrel?
Without a song, who’ld tell
You are too, a holy singer.
2
How is’t? you sleep out there
Rise O Sir! And weep at the Dawn;
Tomorrow shall be lying in here
You-istumetn in the earth.
3
Leaving it to lie at the head,
Sleep you away all the nights;
Race of all singing wights,
O never was there, like as you.
4
Those are the only real singers
Who do not have the rest here;
Slinging harps, from shoulders,
Ever they ask ways to wstes.
5
The way is long and bard weak
O tell Him there, Who’s at summit;
Send in here Thy Holy Spirit
Or else I cannot come to you
6
Where be many best of singers
So what of singers one of more?
What a one be doing here
Is all on error at the core;
Thou art stone, I an ore
O touch me that I turn to gold.
7
Come out ye! Ignorant ones!
The Master is calling to you!
That learnt you not singing lore
This has more ben Him too;’
Standing out saying is Who
“O beg of me, I am but thine”
8
Talent does not come of caste
Who’ld go at he’ld get;
Errors of ignorant ones,
The Master doth ever forget;
One night mere who Him met,
Fails not ever fumbling-one.
9
Know you though, O know you not,
‘tis the door of un-knowers;
At it they’re admitted
‘self’ who their set at naught;
Who Him so beggarly sought
HE’s their the Alm-Giver.
10
Giver Himself grieves at those,
Who’re such-alm-seekers;
“Leaving you the door of min
how’ld beg you at others;
‘Tis to you that occurs,
the interval of all thses days”.
11
Bg of Him, O begging One!
Daily who doth give to you!
False are doors of all the world
Unto where you, yourself drew
Morrow they’ld bring to you
O ‘twere we, who helped you had.
12
Thou art Lord-I beggar
I am naught and thou art all;
Listening to your distant call
Taken have I harp in hand.
13
Thou art Lor-I beggar
I am naught and thou art all;
Listening to your distant call
Taken have I harp in hand.
14
Thou art Lord-I beggar
Thou the Grace, I sinner sore;
Thou Stone, I basest ore
Touch me Thou! I turn to gold.
15
Thou art God, Lord of hosts
We are only beggars all;
The rains do in the seasons fall
Thou but ever on us fall;
Unot me if came you shall
O how honoured be humble one.
16
Risen has morning star
Up, awake-O sing the Lord;
Aspires Who for thy word
Explores HE for thy heart.