Amour, as far as Ghardaya.  She is worth
  All Mzab, the plains of Zab.  She pleases, too,
  The people of the Goubba, holy folk,
  And friends of God.  She’s worth all noble steeds
  However richly housed—­or evening’s star
  When twilight comes.  Too small—­’tis all too small
  For my sweet love, sole cure of all my woes. 
  O God majestic, pardon this poor wretch! 
  Pardon, O Lord and Master, him who grieves!

  Just three-and-twenty years!  That was the age
  Of her who wore the silken sash.  My love
  Has followed her, ne’er to revive within
  My widowed heart.  Console me, Mussulmans,
  My brothers, for the loss of my sweet one,
  Gazelle of all gazelles, who dwelleth now
  In her cold, dark, eternal home. 
  Console me, O young friends, for having lost
  Her whom you’d call a falcon on its nest. 
  Naught but a name she left behind which I
  Gave to the camp wherein she passed away. 
  Console me, men, for I have lost my fair,
  Dear one, that silver khelkals wore. 
  Now is she covered with a veil of stone,
  On strong foundation laid.  Console me, friends,
  For all this loss, for she loved none but me. 
  With my own hands my love’s chest I tattooed,
  Likewise her wrists, with checkered patterns odd,
  Blue as the collar of the gentle dove. 
  Their outlines did not clash, so deftly drawn,
  Although without galam—­my handiwork. 
  I drew them ’twixt her breasts, and on her wrists
  I marked my name.  Such is the sport of fate!

  Now Sa’yd, always deep in love with thee,
  Shall never see thee more!  The memory
  Of thy dear name fills all his heart, my sweet.

  Oh, pardon, God compassionate, forgive
  Us all.  Sa’yd is sad, he weeps for one
  Dear as his soul.  Forgive this love, Lord! 
  Hyzyya—­join them in his sleep, O God most high. 
  Forgive the author of these verses here! 
  It is Mahomet that recites this tale.

  O Thou who hast the future in thy hand,
  Give resignation to one mad with love! 
  Like one exiled from home, I weep and mourn. 
  My enemies might give me pity now. 
  All food is tasteless, and I cannot sleep. 
  I write this with my love but three days dead. 
  She left me, said farewell, and came not back.

  This song, O ye who listen, was composed
  Within the year twelve hundred finished now,
  The date by adding ninety-five years more. [1295.]

  This song of Ould-es-Serge we have sung
  In Ayd-el-Rebye, in the singing month,
  At Sydy-Khaled-ben Sinan.  A man,
  Mahomet ben Guytoun, this song has sung
  Of her you’ll never see again alive. 
  My heart lies there in slim Hyzyya’s tomb.

THE AISSAOUA IN PARIS[A]

  Come, see what’s happened in this evil year. 
  The earthquake tumbled all the houses down,
  Locusts and crickets have left naught behind.