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Lingo, I will ask her

      For my sixteen scores of Koitūrs.

      ‘Tell me, O Moon!’ said Lingo,

      ‘Tell, O Brightener of the darkness!

      Where my sixteen scores are hidden.’

      But the Moon sailed onwards, upwards,

      And her cold and glancing moonbeams

      Said, ‘Your Gonds, I have not seen them.’

      And the Stars came forth and twinkled

      Twinkling eyes above the forest.

      Lingo said, “O Stars that twinkle!

      Eyes that look into the darkness,

      Tell me where my sixteen scores are.”

      But the cold Stars twinkling ever,

      Said, ‘Your Gonds, we have not seen them.’

      Broke the morning, the sky reddened,

      Faded out the star of morning,

      Rose the Sun above the forest,

      Brilliant Sun, the Lord of morning,

      And our Lingo quick descended,

      Quickly ran he to the eastward,

      Fell before the Lord of Morning,

      Gave the Great Sun salutation—

      ‘Tell, O Sun!’ he said, ‘Discover

      Where my sixteen scores of Gonds are.’

      But the Lord of Day reply made—

      “Hear, O Lingo, I a Pilgrim

      Wander onwards, through four watches

      Serving God, I have seen nothing

      Of your sixteen scores of Koitūrs.”

      Then our Lingo wandered onwards

      Through the arches of the forest;

      Wandered on until before him

      Saw the grotto of a hermit,

      Old and sage, the Black Kumāit,

      He the very wise and knowing,

      He the greatest of Magicians,

      Born in days that are forgotten,

      In the unremembered ages,

      Salutation gave and asked him—

      ‘Tell, O Hermit! Great Kumāit!

      Where my sixteen scores of Gonds are.

      Then replied the Black Magician,

      Spake disdainfully in this wise—

      “Lingo, hear, your Gonds are asses

      Eating cats, and mice, and bandicoots,

      Eating pigs, and cows, and buffaloes;

      Filthy wretches! wherefore ask me?

      If you wish it I will tell you.

      Our great Mahādeva caught them,

      And has shut them up securely

      In a cave within the bowels

      Of his mountain Dewalgiri,

      With a stone of sixteen cubits,

      And his bulldog fierce Basmāsur;

      Serve them right, too, I consider,

      Filthy, casteless, stinking wretches!”

      And the Hermit to his grotto

      Back returned, and deeply pondered

      On the days that are forgotten,

      On the unremembered ages.

      But our Lingo wandered onwards,

      Fasting, praying, doing penance;

      Laid him on a bed of prickles,

      Thorns long and sharp and piercing.

      Fasting lay he devotee-like,

      Hand not lifting, foot not lifting,

      Eye not opening, nothing seeing.

      Twelve months long thus lay and fasted,

      Till his flesh was dry and withered,

      And the bones began to show through.

      Then the great god Mahādeva

      Felt his seat begin to tremble,

      Felt his golden stool, all shaking

      From the penance of our Lingo.

      Felt, and wondered who on earth

      This devotee was that was fasting

      Till his golden stool was shaking.

      Stepped he down from Dewalgiri,

      Came and saw that bed of prickles

      Where our Lingo lay unmoving.

      Asked him what his little game was,

      Why his golden stool was shaking.

      Answered Lingo, “Mighty Ruler!

      Nothing less will stop that shaking

      Than my sixteen scores of Koitūrs

      Rendered up all safe and hurtless

      From your cave in Dewalgiri.”

      Then the Great God, much disgusted,

      Offered all he had to Lingo,

      Offered kingdom, name, and riches,

      Offered anything he wished for,

      ‘Only leave your stinking Koitūrs

      Well shut up in Dewalgiri.’

      But our Lingo all refusing

      Would have nothing but his Koitūrs;

      Gave a turn to run the thorns a

      Little deeper in his midriff.

      Winced the Great God: “Very well, then,

      Take your Gonds—but first a favour.

      By the shore of the Black Water

      Lives a bird they call Black Bindo,

      Much I wish to see his young ones,

      Little Bindos from the sea-shore;

      For an offering bring these Bindos,

      Then your Gonds take from my mountain.”

      Then our Lingo rose and wandered,

      Wandered onwards through the forest,

      Till he reached the sounding sea-shore,

      Reached the brink of the Black Water,

      Found the Bingo birds were absent

      From their nest upon the sea-shore,

      Absent hunting in the forest,

      Hunting elephants prodigious,

      Which they killed and took their brains out,

      Cracked their skulls, and brought their brains to

      Feed their callow little Bindos,

      Wailing sadly by the sea-shore.

      Seven times a fearful serpent,

      Bhawarnāg the horrid serpent,

      Serpent born in ocean’s caverns,

      Coming forth from the Black Water,

      Had devoured the little Bindos—

      Broods of callow little Bindos

      Wailing sadly by the sea-shore—

      In the absence of their parents.

      Eighth this brood was. Stood our Lingo,

      Stood he pondering beside them—

      “If I take these little wretches

      In the absence of their parents

      They

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