Troops of servants soon appeared hastening to the arbour, bearing tables laden with various dishes of richly dressed meats and fruits, which might well vie in taste with the sumptuous fare of less primitive countries. Bowls of mead and boza were handed round to the guests; for even those professing the Mahomedan faith did not hesitate to drink of the former delicious beverage, nor were spirits and wine wanting, to add to the conviviality of those whose scruples did not prevent their indulging in them. Minstrels, also, came from far and near to add to the festivity of the occasion; for what feast would be complete without the masters of song? The aged Hassein Shahin, the famed bard of the Atteghei, he who sang of a hundred fights, which he had himself witnessed, and in some of which he had been engaged, now turned his lyre to a high and martial strain. All voices were silent, every ear intent to catch his words which were as follows: From Liberty's harp are the strains you now hear; Men of Atteghei rise at the call; Hark! hark! to its sounds, for the foemen are near, It summons us warriors all To fight for the land of our ancestors' graves, Who died that their children might never be slaves. The Russ marches onward with chains in his hand, To bind our free arms will he try. His banner's dark eagle o'ershadows our land, But we've sworn or to conquer or die, For we fight o'er the sod of our ancestors' graves, Whose valiant hearts ne'er would have yielded to slaves. 'Tis Poland's enslaver with foul bloody hand, Remember her story of woe! Her brave sons are captives, or fled their lov'd land, Beware, or her fate we may know! Let us swear on the earth of our forefathers' graves, That we ne'er will be conquered or yield to those slaves. Remember we fight for our mountains so green, For our vales, for our streams' sparkling tide, For those fields which our father's for ages have been, And where, ever unconquer'd, they died. Then let not their bones be disturbed in their graves, By the tread of a Muscovite army of slaves. See the glorious banner of freedom unfurl'd. It waves o'er our lov'd native land. Muster round it, and valiantly prove to the world, That _alone_ we are able to stand. As our fathers who lie in their warrior graves, Fighting died, that their children might never be slaves. Then curs'd be the traitors who yield to the foe, And curs'd be the cowards who fly! May they ne'er while they live, peace or happiness know, And hated, and scorn'd, may they die! In lands far away may they rot in their graves, And their children bear ever the foul mark of slaves!