Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Asia: Vols. XXI–XXIII. 1876–79.
Harvest Song
By From the Coorgi
S
Rule o’er all the sky they take.
God is Lord of heaven and earth.
All the joyous earnest toil
Happy ryots give the soil,
Our rich land is fully worth.
Circle many fertile grounds;
Which among them is the best?
Far above the highest hill,
Mahameru’s snows are still
Showing where the saints are blest.
Brightest to the eye that sees
Is the brilliant Sampigè.
Sweeter than the sweetest rose,
Purer than the mountain snows,
Better than mere words may say;—
Rich and bright as golden band
On the neck where youth doth stay.
In this happy lovely realm
No misfortunes overwhelm.
Live and prosper while you may!
Joyous on the verdant sward,
Sing we our dear country’s praise.
Tell us then, from first to last,
All the wondrous glories past,
Trolling out a hundred lays.
Green or golden, white as milk,—
Like the image in a glass,—
Bright as shines the sun at noon,
Or at night the silver moon,—
Sweet as fields with flowers and grass,—
Riches knowing no decrease,
Apparandra lived at ease.
In this glorious land he dwelt,
Forest-girt as with a belt,
Coorg the blesséd, green with trees.
“Now ’s the time to do our part,
For the tilling of the field.
Sow we must, and speed the plough,
Dig and plant, spare no toil now,
Harvest then the ground will yield.”
To her fairs his steps he bent,
Where the country met the town.
Thirty-six great bulls he bought
Of the best and largest sort;
White and black, and some red-brown.
Bullocks both of beauty rare.
Yoked together were two more;
Choma, Kicha were they called.
With them was their leader stalled,
Kale, best among two score.
“All my bulls will useless stay
If I give not tools and plough.
Know ye why they worked so well?
No? then listen as I tell
How he made those we have now.
At the end he made a hole;
Pushed the palm-wood handle through.
Sampigé was for the share,
On its edge he placed with care
Iron plates to make the shoe.
Fixing to the share its mail.
Yoke and pins he made of teak.
Strongly tied the whole with cane
Strong and lithe as any chain;
Other strings would be too weak.
Poured upon the earth and main,
Sweet as honey from the bee,
All the fields became as mud,
Fit for plough and hoe and spud,
Far as e’er the eye could see.
Ere the cock began his say,
Or the sun had gilt the sky,
In the morning still and calm,
Twelve stout slaves who tilled the farm,
Roused the bullocks tethered nigh.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Gather all the Coorgi line,
Offering praise and honor due.
There they learn the proper day
From the priest who serves alway
Iguttappa Devaru.
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.
Thronéd high the world above.
Then the Huttri games commence,
And the evening glides away.
Singing, dancing, wrestling, they
Strive for highest excellence.
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.
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.
Still should rest upon their race.
Waiting till the gun has roared
Milk they sprinkle, shouting gay,
Polé! Polé! Devaré!
Multiply thy mercies, Lord!
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.