1
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,-
2
How fast you sleep! in pillows puttour face and weep with sorrow;May be your violin lies tomorrowforsaken on the ground.
3
The true musician has no peace;nowhere for long he tarries-On shoulder-strap his violin carriesand asks the way to wastes.
4
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!
5
The king is giving secretlygifts to ungifted ones;If this those artists were to hearthey never would agree,Their fiddles instantancouslyto smithereens would reduce!
6
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!
7
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!
8
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.
9
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!
10
The morning star has risen...Oharise, adore thy master,He swiftly turns away; doth knowminds of musicians all!
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