Friends, give me flowers for my hair
And take my message to Sherān.
My golden ring for my finger bring
And give me flowers for my hair.
Give me my fine camel-saddle
And the fine scabbard of my sword.
Come to the well to draw water
And take my message to my love,
"I am thy slave with joined hands."
My ring is on thy finger, do not now go back,
With thy beautiful hair, do not now go back.
Thy pledge is on my finger, do not now go back.
And thou wast never false, do not now go back.
Janari is my soul!
If she be old, she is my soul,
If she be far off, she is my soul.
Thy head is mine, 'tis on my soul.
Thy head is mine, do not be sad.
Thy head is mine, I am not sad,
I am not sad when thou art with me,
To see thee move, I am not sad,
To look on thee, I am not sad.
I trusted in thee, false one!
I made thee my love, false one,
Give back my pledge, false one!
May'st thou be blind, false one,
Mays't thou go lame, false one.
Maimed of thy hands, false one!
No fault was mine, false one!
Marriage is an affair of contract; and where girls are bought and sold without any regard to their own consent it is inevitable that most of the love-affairs should be with married women, and that the husband should be regarded as an enemy to be got rid of. This feeling is found in the songs, and sometimes takes a comic form.
Tie up your husband with a rope, and come to your tryst,
Tie the rope to a log, and come to your tryst.
Throw the log into the river, and come to your tryst.
He watches you by day, put on your shoes,
Girl with the hair, and come to your tryst!
