And his lieutenant, named Oulyd-el-Hadj Oualy, is a fool Who thinks his word superior to all, And that there's no one like him in this world. When he has gone there and come back again, He will be perfect. All he contradicts Who speak to him, and will not let them lift A finger. Little love he hath for those Who speak with candor, but he's very fond Of liars, and always bids them come to him. "My childhood was so pampered!" he remarks, And flies into a passion if one doubts. He only lives on semolina coarse, And empty is his paunch, all slack and limp. Yet every day he tells you how he's dined. "I have discovered," he is wont to say "A certain semolina lately brought By a Maltese, who lives some distance off. You never saw the like. I'm going to have Some fine cakes made of it, and some _meqrout_." And El-Hadj Mostefa was dragged along By all these lies and by the love of gain. If God had not abandoned him, he'd be Still making lasts. But 'twas the crowd that led Him on, and that is how it came to pass. With them is donkey-faced Hamyda, who Sold flowers in the market-place. He left His family no coins to live upon, But told them only: "Moderate your pace. I'll buy a house for you when I get back, And we shall live in plenty evermore." Sydy Ahmed et Tsoqba timbals had As big as goat-skin bottles. He desired To play in unison, but the musicians all Abhorred him, for he could not keep in time. The heart of Sydy Ahmed glows with love For Ayn-bou-Sellouf, who is very fair. I hope that cares and fainting-fits may swell Him out, and yellow he will straight become As yellow as a carrot in a field. I love Sydy-t-Tayyeb when he sings And plays the tambourine. Such ugliness My eyes have never seen. You'd think he was A clown. He says: "No one could vanquish me Were I not just a trifle ill to-day." Qaddour, the little cock, the drummer-boy, Who hangs on walls and colors houses here Or tars roofs with his mates, exclaims: "I took This voyage just to get a bit of air." Koutchouk stayed here, he did not go away. Fresh apricots he sells down in the square. "Repose," he murmurs, "is the best of foods, And here my little heart shall stay in peace." When Abd-el-Quader, undertaker's son. Falls in his fits of folly, he binds round His figure with a cord and does not lie Inert and stiff. But still they scorpions see In Altai's hand, Chaouch of Aïssaoua. Faradjy--fop--eats fire and fig-leaves now; The while Hasan the Rat excites him on To doughty deeds with his loud tambourine. Playing with all his might and all his soul. They dragged the hedge-rows green of El Qettár To pay this tribute to the Emperor.