Page:Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan.djvu/126

90 He cooked their simple mess of roots,
 * Content to live obscure.

To fretful questions, answers mild
 * He meekly ever gave,

If they reproved, he only smiled,
 * He loved to be their slave.

Not that to him they were austere,
 * But age is peevish still,

Dear to their hearts he was,—so dear,
 * That none his place might fill.

They called him Sindhu, and his name
 * Was ever on their tongue,

And he, nor cared for wealth nor fame,
 * Who dwelt his own among.

A belt of Bela trees hemmed round
 * The cottage small and rude,

If peace on earth was ever found
 * 'Twas in that solitude.