The Mussul-man coming to fish in this water
Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave.
This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier,
This greyish bath cloak is her funeral pall;
And, stranger, O stranger! this song that you hear
Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all!
Farewell, farewell, to the child of Al Hassan,
My mother's own daughter—the last of her race—
She's a corpse, the poor body! and lies in this basin,
And sleeps in the water that washes her face.