These are not ways you knew beforethy fiddle hanging on the peg,And lovely dawn, as if it wereyour enemy, so to ignore;'Musician' call yourself no more if to adore you thus forget,-
How fast you sleep! in pillows puttour face and weep with sorrow;May be your violin lies tomorrowforsaken on the ground.
The true musician has no peace;nowhere for long he tarries-On shoulder-strap his violin carriesand asks the way to wastes.
Confounded do you roam...O saywhere were you yesterday?My minstrel, now no longer loll,but leave your listless way-Go to the king's door, beg and prayfor things of genuine worth!
The king is giving secretlygifts to ungifted ones;If this those artists were to hearthey never would agree,Their fiddles instantancouslyto smithereens would reduce!
So many minstrels, of what useis all the craft they ply?What servant deems so precious, maybe sin in master's eyes-Alchemy thou, and brazen Ithy look turns me to gold!
Bestowal is not due to caste,whoever works, obtains,At childish ways of innocenceforbearance king maintains;Who one night at his court remainsshall e'er be free from pains!
It is the Givers great reproach,against musicians vain;"Why do you beg at other doorsand mine do not approachHence harm and hardship do encroachupon their happiness.
The only Giver thou, and wethe humble beggars are;Rains seasons have...Thy bounty's raindoth pour eternally;A visitation sweet, from theeexalts, though soiled I be!
The morning star has risen...Oharise, adore thy master,He swiftly turns away; doth knowminds of musicians all!