Abdul, a lazy peasant, lay A-snoring half the livelong day; His thrifty wife to scold began— “Arise, and work, O lazy man.” Yawning, he rose, and, stretching, spake, While half asleep and half awake, “Ah, little wife, why should I rise?” “To earn our bread,” the girl replies. “Know, woman, if we work or not, In winter cold and summer hot, Great Allah feeds his slaves, and he Will surely feed both you and me.” The youthful peasant kissed his wife, Then sallied forth in dread of strife. With merry song and joyous lay, Abdul beguiled the dusty way. At length he reached a spreading plane, “Beneath thy shade I will remain; A brooklet and a shady tree, There is no better place for me.” He laid him down prepared to doze; But suddenly he quickly rose, And clambering the plane in fear, Espied a dervish drawing near. The dervish had the dullard air, The maddened look, the vacant stare, That bhang[29] and contemplation give. He moved, but did not seem to live; His gaze was savage and yet sad, What we should call stark-staring mad. All down his back his tangled hair Flowed wild, unkempt; his head was bare; A leopard’s skin was o’er him flung, Around his neck huge beads were hung, And in his hand—ah! there’s the rub— He carried a portentous club, Which Abdul’s eye had caught, you see, And this is why he climbed the tree. The dervish stopped and gazed around, Then flung himself upon the ground. “I ne’er have seen in God’s creation A fitter spot for meditation.” Smiled at the turf which ’neath him lay, And said, “Yes, here I’ll spend the day.” This Abdul heard, and shook with fear, While from his eye there fell a tear. “Oh, heaven!” exclaimed the trembling wight, “He may, perhaps, too, stop the night.” ... The dervish, squatting in the shade, Five puppets small of clay has made; And to the first he spake: “To thee I give the name of Omar. See, The second’s Ali Mortaza, The mighty prophet’s son-in-law. You, Abubekr, are the third”— Abdul craned out his neck and heard; “The fourth the prophet’s self shall be”— Abdul here groaned, and shook the tree. The dervish paused, then gave a nod, “The fifth one—yes—the fifth one’s God.” Poor Abdul heard the blasphemy, And shook with fear and agony. “Ah,” quoth the dervish, “Omar; well, You doubtless grill in deepest hell; You robbed our Ali—I have smashed you; Had Ali pluck he might have thrashed you. Ali; could you do naught yourself to save From murder and an early grave? Ah! Islam’s head too weak to rule, I fear you were a torpid fool— Half-hearted idiot—bah—pooh”— He raised his club—“I smash you too. And you, old Abubekr—triple ass, Could you not aid him? I’ll not pass You over,—there, take that!”