BECAUSE thou com'st, a weary guest, Unto my tent, I bid thee rest. This cruse of oil, this skin of wine, These tamarinds and dates are thine; And while thou eatest, Medjid, there, Shall bathe the heated nostrils of thy mare. Illah il' Allah! Even so An Arab chieftain treats a foe, Holds him as one without a fault Who breaks his bread and tastes his salt; And, in fair battle, strikes him dead With the same pleasure that he gives him bread! |