When I had finished quite
  This dittyramb, and El-Hadj-ben-er-Rebha
  Became acquainted with it, he began
  To laugh, telling his beads the while, and then
  His decoration from his wallet took,
  Which had been there enclosed.

        My song spread wide. 
  They found it savory.  Respected sirs,
  It is the latest Friday in the month
  Of El Mouloud and in the year we call
  Twelve hundred ninety-four, that I complete
  This tale fantastic.

        Would you know my name? 
  I am Qaddour, well known to all the world,
  Binder to Sydy Bou Gdour, and attired
  In gechchabyya-blouse.  And if my back
  Were not deformed, none could compete with me.

  They told me, “When those folk come back again
  Thou’d better hide thyself for fear of harm. 
  They’ll break thy hump and send thee home to heaven.” 
  “Oh, I’ll protect myself,” I said, “or else complain
  To the police.”

        If I were not so busy
  I’d still have many other things to say. 
  Those who have heard my prattle say it’s good;
  So say the singers and musicians, too,
  Ez Zohra ben-el-Foul among them, who
  Pays compliments to me, from window-seat.

He who hath nothing found that’s useful here
Will find in this my song what suits him best. 
But if he wants to see here something more,
Then stretch him ’neath the stick and give him straight
A thousand blows upon the belly; then
Take him away to the physician, who
Will bleed him well.

                  And now may hearts not be
  Made sad by what I have so lightly said. 
  I’ve placed myself among you, so that I
  May not incur your blame, O brothers mine. 
  I’ve told you my deformity, and all
  My miseries unveiled before your gaze.

SONG OF FATIMA[1]

  My spirit is in pain, for it cannot
  Forget my sweet gazelle, with eyes so black. 
  A fire burns in my heart, and all my frame
  But wastes and withers.  Where’s thy cure, O Taleb?

  I find no medicine that cureth love,
  In vain I search.  Sweet Fatima’s the cause
  Of all my woes, with khelkal tinted blue. 
  My heart endureth passion’s pangs, my grief
  Continues.  Where’s thy remedy, O Taleb? 
  Thy remedy is lost, my good Lord Taleb.

  Pray God for me, O Taleb, I implore. 
  But how to cure the malady of love? 
  There is no remedy, and all is lost. 
  I die for lack of strength to bear my trials. 
  It is to thee that I intrust myself,
  The healer who must bring rest to my heart;
  For now a living brand burns in my breast. 
  If thou art skilful, find a cure for me.

[1] This elegy is the work of a celebrated sheik of Tlemcen, Mahomet-Ben-Sahla, whose period was the first half of the eighteenth century.  He left a son, Ben Medien, a poet, too, and his descendants still live, near Tlemcen, in a village called Feddan-es-Seba.