Its crops are these lances: these sons of the wind,
Our steeds, are its flocks—a grim harvest to bind!
Monsoor, my chief! how we dash o'er the sand,
Hissing behind us like storm-driven snow!
Flash the long guns of your wild Arab band,
Brandish the spears, and the light jereeds throw,
As, half-winged, through the shrill singing breezes we go!
Monsoor, my chief! send the horses away:
The sports of your tribe I have seen with delight.
Now let us watch while the rose-tinted day