Those men may boast of being born, whose skulls gleam white on Siva's head,
The final meed of holy saints, and chiefs whose souls in battle fled;
But oft I must how men can swell with pride at causing those to bow,
Who, if they save their precious lives, care little for the when and how.
You are a lord of acres,
But we are lords of song;
And we subdue the subtle,
If you subdue the strong;
The rich of you are speaking,
In me the wise believe,
And if you find me irksome,
Why then--I take my leave.
