In plain words
Yaśōdā begs: "You who once, never failing the word of those men of hard resolve [the herdsmen], became their lord of fine strength, so that the seven fierce bulls died for the sake of Nappiṉṉai, lovely as a plumed peacock, with fair dark tresses; you who drove a single, matchless chariot into your own boundless light and brought back the lost children [of a brahmin] to their mother: my father, dance the ceṅkīrai for me once! Fighting bull of the herdsmen, dance, oh dance!"