In plain words
The poet, to the Lord of Tirumāliruñcōlai: I have been granted the grace of living in your service; for me now to go and bow to some petty man and stand at his door would be a lessening of your supremacy, mark this. O my father of beautiful Māliruñcōlai, where the Kuṟavar hill-folk, gathered in their clans, pluck the millet of their fields, offer it to you as a fresh oblation, say May your beautiful feet flourish, and then eat the new grain.