And will bear me to the tent of thy father.
O Yamina, fools are they who foster thy pride,
Greater fools they who tell me to forget thee!
Would that I were the pin[[70]] of thy haïk;
A lock of thy black hair,
The meroueud[[71]] that blackens thy eyes,
Or, still better, the carpet thou tramplest under foot.
I watered my horse at the fountain-head,
Then lightly leaped on his back.
My chabir are glued to his flanks,