Hear how the maid of Roopnagore
Disdained the friendship of the Moor,
When forth by royal hest there came,
With peers and paladins of fame,
A gay young lordling of degree,
The pride of Moslem chivalry,
To win her from her father's side,
To be a Kaffir sovereign's bride.
'Go back. Sir Knight,' she sternly said,
While maiden shame her cheeks dyed red,
'Go back and say, for gems and gold,
For lordly Delhi's guarded hold,
For power, for state, for lands in fee,
An odalisque I ne'er will be,
Nor faith and troth will coldly sell
To him who is an infidel.
'The dun-deer on the mountain's side
May with the panther be allied;
Compelled by bleak December's weather,
The owl and lark may house together;
Or yet by spring inspired the dove
May seek the hawk's protecting love;
But Roopnagore in weal and woe
Shall ever deem the Moor a foe.
'In rich brocade, and jewels sheen,
Rather than shine the Moslem's queen,
Rather than greet a fratricide,
I'd be a simple shepherd's bride,
And take as readily my share
Of rustic toil and rustic care,
As ever lowly Rajpoot swain,
On Mewar's still romantic plain.'