The barrel of this gun is rusted red.
The lock is forceless, 'twill no longer act.
Misfortune overtake the man who leaves
His child to perish! For the least of things
He says to me, "Come, give me up this gun."
I go to seek the desert. I will go
Among the tribe they call Oulad Azyz,
And live by force. But, pray you say to her,
The fair one with the deftly braided hair,
I leave the tribe, but shall return for her.