In the sixth fight—Bízhan, the son of Gív,
Against Rúín—the warriors rushed forth,
Strung up their bows and wheeled to left and right,
But shot in vain. Then, brazen mace in hand,
Bízhan manœuvred for the vantage-ground,
And, with a rush earth-rending, smote Rúín
Upon the head; his helm ran brains and blood.
There on the saddle gave he up sweet life,
While calling on Pírán, the son of Wísa,

And from the steed came headlong to the ground—
An iron body with a mouth all gore.
Ere he had had full joyance of his youth
He ventured all for gain and lost it all.
The world is full of cark and care, good sooth!
And after every rise there is a fall.
Bízhan dismounted lightly from his steed,
Like Áhriman upon his fallen foe,
And cut his head off with a scimitar;
For him was neither grave nor winding-sheet.
Bízhan next with his lasso bound the corpse
Upon the saddle: there was none to mourn;
Then, mounting like a furious elephant,
And seizing in his hand his foeman's reins,
Bízhan took up his own swift charger's bridle,
And hastened hill-ward with his lion-flag,
With rusty blue steel rings, in hand, and cried:—
“In every contest may our monarch win,
And crowned for ever be his paladin.”