With him my uncle was, Mahomet-ben-El-Haffaf, who remains at prayer all day. He heard this prelude and he said to them, "It is not an affair." "Fear not," they said, "For they will put you also in the song." He's tickled by the urchins' eulogies, Who praise him as the master of chicane. "'Tis finished now for thee to climb up masts." They add: "You're but a laughing-stock for all. You've stayed here long enough. You'd better go And teach Sahary oxen how to read!" When I recited all these lines to Sy Mahomet Oulyd el-Isnam, who has To the supreme degree the gift of being A bore he said to me, "Now this is song Most flat." The mice in droves within his shop Have eaten an ounce of wool. He is installed Within the chamber of El Boukhary. In posture of a student, in his hands Some sky-blue wool. "It is," he says, "to make Some socks for little children, for I have But little wool." When I had finished quite This dittyramb, and El-Hadj-ben-er-Rebha Became acquainted with it, he began To laugh, telling his beads the while, and then His decoration from his wallet took, Which had been there enclosed. My song spread wide. They found it savory. Respected sirs, It is the latest Friday in the month Of El Mouloud and in the year we call Twelve hundred ninety-four, that I complete This tale fantastic. Would you know my name? I am Qaddour, well known to all the world, Binder to Sydy Boû Gdour, and attired In gechchabyya-blouse. And if my back Were not deformed, none could compete with me. They told me, "When those folk come back again Thou'd better hide thyself for fear of harm. They'll break thy hump and send thee home to heaven." "Oh, I'll protect myself," I said, "or else complain To the police." If I were not so busy I'd still have many other things to say. Those who have heard my prattle say it's good; So say the singers and musicians, too, Ez Zohra ben-el-Foul among them, who Pays compliments to me, from window-seat. He who hath nothing found that's useful here Will find in this my song what suits him best. But if he wants to see here something more, Then stretch him 'neath the stick and give him straight A thousand blows upon the belly; then Take him away to the physician, who Will bleed him well. And now may hearts not be Made sad by what I have so lightly said. I've placed myself among you, so that I May not incur your blame, O brothers mine. I've told you my deformity, and all My miseries unveiled before your gaze. SONG OF FATIMA[1] My spirit is in pain, for it cannot Forget my sweet gazelle, with eyes so black. A fire burns in my heart, and all my frame But wastes and withers. Where's thy cure, O Taleb?